


Lacuna

by Masked_Mayhem



Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, flirting instead of fighting, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23211409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Mayhem/pseuds/Masked_Mayhem
Summary: Lacuna (noun) - a blank space, a missing partDeckard can't pinpoint the exact moment that his and Hobbs' bantering crossed the line into pure flirting, but he figures that it allows for more personal, biting insults, which he sees as a complete win. It's not like the flirting means anything anyways. They're just Hobbs & Shaw: tentative friends at best, sworn enemies at worst.Surprisingly, though, Hobbs' name is on the short list of people that he can trust. Maybe that's why Deckard seeks him out whenever he's vulnerable, whenever he can't fend for himself. Maybe that's why he allows the flirting, even reciprocates it: he trusts the man. He's happy with the frenemies jig they have going on. He doesn't need anything more, doesn't want anything more.At least for now.
Relationships: Brian O'Conner/Dominic Toretto (background), Luke Hobbs/Deckard Shaw
Comments: 129
Kudos: 489





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, while Overstepping is buffering out in my brain, I decided to compensate for the wait by creating another work. I mean, I've got nothing but time either way because of the worldwide-pandemic-inflicted-house-arrest. 
> 
> This fic takes place after Hobbs&Shaw, BUT, in this version of things, Brixton Lore didn't die but rather got away, similar to how Cypher did in F8.
> 
> Enjoy!

A chair breaks over his back. Deckard cringes.

_ Ah, fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark. _

He pulls his blade out of the guy that he’d just gutted with it and swings with it, throwing it at the guy who had broken the chair over him. Continuing with his momentum from the spin, he rams his heel into the same guy’s face, taking him down as another attacker rushes him from the back, putting him in a chokehold. Deckard lets him, then reaches his arm back to hold onto the guy’s head and drops his weight as he artfully tosses the guy over his shoulder.

The git, apparently not getting the memo that the move was supposed to get him to  _ let go of his neck _ , brings Deckard down with him. Deckard rolls with it, somersaulting as the momentum demands him to and putting the tosser into a chokehold of his own with his thighs. Upon seeing more thugs rushing in, however, he instead ends it with a quick twist of his legs, hearing a satisfying snap and feeling the body going lip between his legs.

He’s up on his feet not a moment too soon. Two of them, both of them brawny, are on him, and he’s being forced back. He blocks a blow to his face from one of them with both hands, and thus takes a solid punch to his gut from the other one. He cringes again internally even as he breaks the first one’s wrist then redirects a second punch from the second guy into the first one’s face, knocking him out. The second one’s face goes openmouthed and he turns to his fallen comrade apologetically for a split second; the fleeting distraction was enough for Deckard to put him to the ground with a well placed series of kicks and punches.

He straightens his stance only to lose it when another one rams into him from the side. His ribs let out a shriek of protest, and he apologizes mentally to them as he drops his weight once again and throws the attacker headlong over his shoulder again with his own momentum. 

He sees another three rushing him from his peripherals and decides,  _ fuck it _ , and whips out his Glock and shoots them down with one hand while his other hand blocks what definitely would have been a bloody nose from a fourth goon who had rushed his front. 

He then turns the gun on the fourth guy and takes the opportunity to take the bugger down, wincing when one bullet doesn’t prove enough and the guy gets handsy enough to send a blade into his arm. Not letting the pain that lances up his arm distract him, he sends another bullet at the man, this one aimed at his forehead for good measure. 

He pulls the blade out of his arm and uses it to strike down two more, putting holes in places he’s sure they wouldn’t prefer holes to be. Looking up from their still bodies on the floor, he eyes the final one, a man twice his size. Bald. His lips tick up in a smirk as another similar figure comes to mind--he  _ has _ to tease Hobbs about this, he can already picture it-- _ I met some people the other day, one of ‘em was tall, big, ugly, looked like he’d just bounced his head of a wall recently. Reminded me of you! _ \--it’s simple on its own but with a twist of his tone and a leer on his face, he just knows he can get a reaction out of the man.  _ Have to remember that one, can’t let it go to waste.  _ He distractedly rushes the goon, leaping when he gets close enough and wrapping his shins around the guy’s throat. He twists and the guy goes down with Shaw on top of him. He adjusts his grip so that he’s got the guy in a chokehold like with the other one. This time, with no immediate threat at hand, he takes his time, pinning down the guy’s hands when he starts trading blows with Shaw’s torso, which  _ really  _ doesn’t appreciate the attention.

_ Maybe he should send it in a postcard? The insult wouldn’t sound right coming off his tongue--it would be nicer written down _ .  _ He can even write it in that scrawling way that just bleeds sarcasm onto the paper _ .

He jerks when the goon suddenly sinks his teeth into the meat of his thigh in a desperate attempt to get away. He lets out a snarl and uses the heel of his palm to knock the guy’s teeth in. He smirks at the wail of pail, then, deciding that the choke  _ really  _ isn’t worth his time, twists his legs once again, hearing the telltale snap once again. 

He flips back onto his feet, then abruptly rocks forward, putting a hand to his torso when his vision whites around the edges.  _ Shit, the blows were adding up _ . His body was a cacophony of pain that let him know its disapproval of his movements when he grabbed the flash drive that he had come for in the first place and took off in a sprint towards where he had left his bike. Hopping on--wincing as he does because  _ fucking who even bites people during fights?! _ \--he takes off into the night, abandoning the warehouse that he’d just cleaned out. 

He suddenly remembers a Sunday barbecue at the Toretto residence with the blondie--big Brian--telling a story of a car with an ejector seat that didn’t work and a guy named Enrique who just  _ wouldn’t quit _ . Toretto had laughed for days at that one, asking if O'Conner would bite him too if he put him in a headlock and letting out an unmanly shriek of rage when the man had done just that. Everyone had started laughing even harder at that, holding their sides as blondie danced out of Toretto’s range when the man had made a grab for him, face red from laughing himself. The crude joke about how he had thought that Dom only made that sound in bed had surprised Deckard. He had only been even more shocked when Toretto had just grabbed Blondie around the waist and hauled him in for a filthy kiss that made O’Conner release a few sounds of his own. Everyone else acted like it was a normal occurrence. Weren’t Ortiz and Toretto together? And he’d heard something about O’Conner being with Toretto’s sister? Either way he hadn’t said anything then, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Toretto or O’Conner about it now. They were all friends now, especially since Han had come forward as decidedly  _ not dead _ , but he figured that asking the two about their sex life would still cross a few lines.

Maybe he could ask Hobbs? They seem to be somewhat friendly with one another now. Welp, if he ever needs a conversation starter with the man, at least he’s got one. He stores it in the back of his mind with the taunt from earlier. 

… 

The next morning, less than 10 hours apart from the previous fight, he’s infiltrating another bunker, this one with better security. He snarls as he feels a bullet lodge itself in his right shoulder. He makes a show of looking at the shoulder, then up to the guy that had fired the gun. The guy swallows heavily. A second later, he’s on the ground, a similar bullet in him. Deckard steps over him uncaringly, meeting the two others that rush him and a third that tries to get him from behind and pin his arms to his sides. He hisses at the contact even as he kicks out at the approaching two then sends his heel into the third one’s shin, hearing a grunt behind him and loosening of arms that allows him to drop to the ground and sweep the guy’s feet out from underneath him, giving him an elbow to the throat as he goes down. His right arm’s still smarting from the knife it had taken the night before, and the bullet to his shoulder sure as hell didn’t help matters. 

Another handful of guards enters the room and sees him and the bodies littered around him--which he’s sure is  _ quite  _ the picture--and immediately rushes him--which ultimately says more about their self preservation than his intimidation factor, he believes. He meets them halfway, trading blows--which makes it obvious that he can’t say much about his  _ own  _ self preservation either--but four trained fighters on one is difficult, even for him, and he lands as many blows as he himself takes. 

He tastes the blood from a split lip from a stray fist and an opening cut on his cheekbone from the ring on a not-so-stray-fist. He loses ground but gains it back quickly, opting to use his legs more than his arms, thus packing more power behind his blows. He knocks one of the four back into a glass table with a forceful thrust kick to the stomach, and another drops to the ground after a sharp knee to the groin--which, he figures, is playing dirty, but whatever, bite him, it’s literally  _ four-on-one  _ he can do what he fucking wants--and when the third one rushes him like a bull, he sidesteps and lets the guy come back to him while he deals with the fourth, who he takes care of with a roundhouse to the face that sends the guy straight to the ground with a broken cheekbone. The third one redirects and rushes him again, so Deckard just sidesteps again--honestly, Americans, you think they’d learn--but grabs the twit’s elbow as he goes by, pulling it back and breaking it easily before knocking the guy down with a solid side kick to his ribs.

He shakes out his right arm, feeling the sensation of pins and needles setting in. He uses his left to massage out the right as he leans over the computer he’s getting data from, grabbing the flash drive when the download  _ finally  _ finishes. Just as he straightens, he hears a yell to his side, and he turns to face it, only to be bowled over through a glass divider when the bonehead  _ fucking tackles him _ \--maybe he and the other one are related?--like a bull. 

He lands on his right arm, which _ouch_ _does not fucking like that_ and is forced to roll when the thug who had shoved him through tries to stomp his face in. He rolls-- _through glass shards yikes_ \--and uses his hands to push himself back onto his feet-- _again glass shards, ouch!_ \--and grabs one of the glass shards at his feet and pushes it into the plonker’s thigh as he delivers a stunning uppercut with his left while the man is distracted with yowling in pain like an angry cat. 

He would’ve done it with his right, but it’s stopped obeying him, instead choosing to cheerfully dangle at his side, perpetually useless. He rolls his right shoulder and massages the limb as he treks back through the bunker, flash drive still in his pocket, thankfully. He manages to avoid too much serious confrontation and instead hops on his bike again, letting it start up with a loud roar that he’s sure is probably just alerting more people to his presence but, whatever, he’s done what he needs to do, might as well leave in style. He takes off into the night, swerving as some of the bastards take it upon themselves to take potshots at him. 

He manages to get out of there in one piece, but his vision starts wavering as time passes. He takes one hand off the bike’s handles to press against the gunshot, swearing when he feels how wet the cloth around it and over it have become. He doesn’t slow down, because if there’s people following him that would just be plain barmy, and he takes his hand off the bike handle to press against the wound now and then, feeling out the bleeding.  _ Fuck he needs help _ . And he sure as hell didn’t trust Nobody’s medics with his blood samples. 

He drives mindlessly, to busy thinking about his injuries to accurately judge where he’s going, so imagine his surprise when he finds himself on Hobbs’ street in front of Hobbs’ house with his hand raised to ring Hobbs’ doorbell. He comes back to himself just before his finger hits the doorbell, and he pauses and considers. It’s arse-o’clock in the morning, Samantha Hobbs might be home, Hobbs is probably sleeping, and they’re not really that great of pals to begin with. Then he considers the other side: He’s bleeding out, he can’t use his right arm to help himself, Hattie’s out of town, Owen’s got his own problems, and he  _ still _ doesn’t trust Nobody with his blood samples. He sighs, going to scrub a hand against his face but deciding ultimately against it when he remembers the glass probably embedded in it.

_ I’ll ring the doorbell once, and wait ten seconds. If he answers, I’ll ask for help. If he doesn’t, I’ll leave and deal with it on my own. _

He nods to himself, satisfied with his plan, and painstakingly uses his pointer finger-- _ embedded with glass, fucking ouch! _ \-- to ring the doorbell. 

Then he waits. And he counts.

_ One _

There’s no movement inside.

_ Two _

He massages his right arm again. The pins and needles have become unbearable.

_ Three _

He promptly regrets massaging his arm because there’s  _ literally glass inside his hands _ .

_ Four _

You’d think he’d be able to remember.

_ Five _

He tries wiggling the fingers of his right hand, feeling giddy when they respond.

_ Six _

He tries his elbow next, rolling it.

_ Seven _

It pulls at the stab wound in a way that makes his vision go white.

_ Eight _

But, hey, it  _ does _ still work so he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

_ Nine _

He looks down at the wooden porch, wondering suddenly if he’s dripping blood onto it. 

_ Ten _

He holds his breath. 

_ Eleven? _

The porch light doesn’t even come on. 

Deckard sighs then, and turns around, stepping off the porch. Honestly he didn’t know what he was expecting. He makes his way back to his bike, limping now. His ankle had twinged when he stepped off the porch, maybe he had sprained it? He debates his course of action when he gets back to his hotel room. He’d probably have to sneak in through the window--wouldn’t want the manager to see him and kick him out--and he knew he had a set of tweezers in his bag so he could pull the glass out. Then he could--

“Shaw? That you?”

_ Twenty-two _

“Yeah, twinkle-toes, it’s me,” he says, turning around, suddenly feeling like a berk.

“ _ Jesus,  _ what  _ happened  _ to you?!”

Ah, right, the  _ stellar  _ condition of his face.

“Long story,” he decides to say back.

“Well, don’t just stand there, asshole, get inside and tell me.”

A grin breaks out onto Deckard’s face, but it’s smothered quickly.

“Your kid home?”

“No, she’s at her mom’s. Stop asking questions and  _ get in _ before I shut the door and go back to sleep.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” but he’s already ascending the porch steps again, pointedly ignoring Hobbs’ low whistle when he’s bathed in porch light that makes it impossible to hide his condition.

Well, that, and the fact that his ankle suddenly shoots a spark of pain up his leg with the explicit message of  _ get off me _ that makes his leg buckle under him. Hobbs manages to get a hand on his right shoulder, preventing him from hitting the ground, but he abruptly lets go when he hears Deckard’s choked-off scream, and he hits the ground anyways.  _ Thanks a fucking lot Hobbs. _ And now he’s  _ definitely  _ bleeding onto the porch, but every time he tries to get his hands underneath him to push himself up, they just don’t respond to him.

Hobbs hovers over him anxiously, not knowing where to touch but wanting to help. Finally he comes to a decision, and he grabs Deckard around his middle and hoists him up into a fireman’s carry like it’s fucking nothing-- _ ouch, his ego _ \--and carries him inside, kicking the door shut behind him and locking it. 

He parades Deckard into the loo, where he sets him down on the closed toilet before hunting for a first aid kit in the cupboard. Deckard, for his part, decides to take it upon himself to take off his tight shirt so that Hobbs can reach his injuries. He grasps the materials in his hands, then promptly lets go because  _ ouch his fucking hands and when will he fucking learn _ .

Hobbs looks up from where he’d been arranging items on the counter, brow furrowed. Deckard’s too busy cursing up a storm to meet his eyes, but he stops mid-sentence when Hobbs suddenly steps in front of him, towering over him in the cramped space. He offers his hand, palm up, to she-hulk when the brute gestures for it, and he grits his teeth as Hobbs pokes and prods, inspecting it. He returns the hand back to Shaw then takes a good look at Deckard, seemingly considering something.

“You fond of that sweater princess?” Hobbs asks him, and the question catches him off guard at first. Then he realizes what Hobbs is proposing. 

“It’s called a  _ jumper _ …bloody Americans,” he snarks back, holding out his arms when Hobbs pulls out a Swiss Army knife from the back pocket of his joggers-- _ shit, paranoid much? _ \--and flips the blade out. He even manages to hold still when Hobbs turns the blade towards him and draws closer to him. He snorts to himself.  _ Talk about the worst bedside manner in all of history. Yes, let’s just point the blade at the man who’d just been impaled with one not even 24 hours ago? Genius! _

Hobbs cuts lengthwise down both his sleeves, from his shoulder to his wrists, then carefully slips the material off his arms. He then steps close to him, to the point where his crotch is in Deckard’s face  _ oi back off Romeo _ to cut from the back of his neck down to the hem of the jumper. Deckard stiffens involuntarily when Hobbs comes around front and puts the blade to his throat to cut from the neck of the jumper to the hem on the frontside.

“Don’t worry, princess, I’m not gonna kill you. Not like this at least,” Hobbs chuckles, having caught the slight change in his posture.

“Too prissy to handle the fallout?” Deckard bites back, just because he can.

“Trust me, asshat, if I’m gonna kill you it’s gonna be through me knocking your teeth so far back in your throat that you choke on ‘em.”

Deckard opens his mouth to reply, but Hobbs chooses that moment to go at his right hand with the tweezers that he’d apparently sterilized with rubbing alcohol, and he lets out a pained hiss instead. He shoots Big&Bald a glare that he doesn’t seem to see and settles down. He’s grudgingly surprised, though he’d never admit it to the man--he’s relatively gentle with the treatment. Hattie probably would have been harsher. 

Hobbs is gentle but meticulous. He gets the bigger, more visible chunks out first, then forces Deckard to wash his hand with warm water to wash away the blood so that he can pick out the smaller fragments. He goes back over even the smallest scratches at least four times, checking for anything he missed. It’s time-consuming, but surprisingly effective and relatively painless. Upon finishing with his right hand, Hobbs puts down the tweezers and grabs the roll of bandages sitting on the counter, wrapping Deckard’s hand quickly and effectively, allowing for coverage but also movement. Deckard wiggles his fingers afterwards to test the durability, and is pleasantly surprised when he’s able to move his fingers freely without shifting the bandages.

Hobbs moves onto the other hand, then, taking the same amount of painstaking time and attention to detail (if not more) to clean and dress the other hand, too. Upon finishing with dressing his left hand (and rolling his eyes when Deckard tests out the wrappings), Hobbs then goes to put the tweezers down before stopping thoughtfully. He eyes the bullet wound on Deckard’s now bare shoulder.

“It’s still in there,” Deckard affirms, and Hobbs makes a humming sound that sounds vaguely sympathetic. And hell, Deckard might as well be of  _ some  _ use, seeing as how he was so rude to barge in unannounced. “Here, give em to me, I know where it is, I can feel it.”

Hobbs raises an eyebrow at him, probably going for intimidating, but just getting confused. Deckard very politely lets him know that. He gets the tweezers thrown at him for his efforts. But it  _ was  _ what he was going for so whatever. Deckard lets out a small sigh then braces himself and digs the newly sterilized tweezers into the gunshot wound, finding the bullet in one go and looking for a good grip on it. Hobbs, on the other hand, crouches down in front of him, then after a moment of hesitation, reaches out to feel out Deckard’s ribs.

“I expect dinner first, handsome,” Deckard leers at him through gritted teeth (still has tweezers very much  _ inside  _ his body).

“Knew you’d be the type to put out on the first date, sweetheart,” Hobbs leers right back, and Deckard stops the traitorous twitch of his lips before it becomes visible.

“So blood and bruises does it for you? I’ll keep that in mind,” he quips back, finally getting a good enough grip on the bullet to pull it out.

“Depends, actually. If I press on them, will you whine for me? That’ll definitely get me going,” Hobbs mocks. His hands are on Shaw’s back now, marking out tender spots and feeling up and down his spine.

“Hmmm I’ll think about it. Would you like it if I screamed for you?” his voice is sweet, juxtaposing his filthy words, and it does the trick, Hobbs’ hands stutter and he retracts them, avoiding Deckard’s eyes. 

_ Victory, tosspot _

“I dunno, darling, just you on your back with your legs wrapped around my waist might be enough for me.”

It surprises a laugh out of Deckard.

_ Dammit...tie _

“Alright then, love, get these holes in me fixed up and I’ll see what I can do for you,” Deckard bats his eyelashes at him.

Hobbs laughs openly and rises to his feet, taking the tweezers with the bloody bullet in them from Deckard’s hand and depositing them on the counter. He then pulls out a needle and unflavored dental floss from the kit. The needle is already strung through with the floss, which gives Deckard an idea of how frequently Hobbs has come to use this particular pair of items. 

His vision suddenly tilts.

_ Fuck, maybe he should’ve done something to stem the bleeding. _

“Hobbs... _ Hobbs _ …” he tries to warn him, but his voice is too soft and the big bastard doesn’t turn around. 

_ Whatever _

Black spots start dancing in his vision and he feels the sensation of nausea that always accompanies lightheadedness.

_ It’s  _ his  _ floor anyways _

And with that, he’s out.

… 

He jackknifes out of unconsciousness, panicking. 

_ Where is he? How long has he been out? Why can’t he remember anything? Fuck,  _ **_where is he_ ** _? _

“Shaw,  _ Shaw...Deckard.  _ Hey, calm down asshat, you’re safe.” Funnily enough, it’s the ‘asshat’ that calms him down more than anything. 

There’s a hand on his left shoulder, urging him back into a lying position, which he realizes is probably the best position to be in. The bruises on his body are pitching fits that make it difficult to even sit up. He lets the hand ease him back into a lying position, cringing hard when his upper body hits the… _ bed(?) _ that he’s lying on and sends a twinge of pain through his shoulder. He stares up at the ceiling, letting his vision go back to normal, then turns his head slightly. He’s met with the sight of Hobbs sinking back down into an armchair that’s been set up next to the bed. 

“Hobbs?” his voice is scratchier than it usually is, but he ignores it. 

“Yeah, princess?”

“Where…?” 

“My room.”

“Oh.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.”

“How long?”

“You’ve been out for about 17 hours.”

Deckard almost ricochets up again, but is stopped by Hobbs’ hand on his good shoulder again. His good  _ bare  _ shoulder, he suddenly realizes.

“ _ Relax, Deckard _ . I already called Hattie, who said she called your mom. And then you got a call from Nobody on your cell, which I answered, too.”

“I need to--” but Hobbs cuts him off again.

“He already sent by Reisner to pick up the flash drive that was in your pocket, and I handed it off to him. We were face to face, and the flash drive left my hand and went straight into his. No funny business.”

Deckard relaxes back into the bed, which, speaking of--

“Whose bed…?”

The smirk that Hobbs sends him is definitely  _ not  _ reassuring him.

Deckard groans.

“You seemed pretty passionate about me taking you to bed earlier. What happened? Too much of a pussy to follow through?” Hobbs taunts.

And  _ two  _ can play at that game.

He makes a show of looking between himself, in the bed, and Hobbs, in the chair. 

“ _ I’m  _ in your bed, half-naked, might I add; yet  _ you’re  _ still fully dressed and  _ not  _ in bed with me. Sure you’re not the one who’s the pussy?”

Hobbs doesn’t miss a beat.

“Well after you  _ passed out  _ after I got my hands on your body I figured you weren’t ready for that yet.”

Deckard snorts at that.

“You give yourself too much credit. Not like the blood loss from the  _ bullet in my shoulder _ had anything to do with me fainting, or anything,” he scoffs back.

Hobbs shakes his head thoughtfully.

“No… I’m pretty sure it was me, darling. I mean, given the way that you were biting back moans every time I got my hands on you.”

“Moans of  _ pain  _ you berk. From the bullet in my shoulder and the  _ knife in my arm _ .”

“Damn, I know we established that bruises and blood do it for me, but I never realized that you were such a slut for pain.”

Deckard groans again.

“You know, I  _ was  _ willing to sleep with you, if only to sate your blindingly obvious desperate need for me, but I  _ completely  _ forgot: I don’t sleep with people whose egos are larger than their dicks.”

Hobbs laughs at him and leans a little closer, like he’s telling a secret.

“Trust me sweetheart, my ego’s the  _ only  _ thing that’s bigger than my dick.”

Deckard just smirks back at him, leaning in close just to goad him.

“Maybe so, but that just means that you  _ still  _ don’t meet my qualifications sweetheart. I stroke cocks, not egos.”

Hobbs laughs again, settling back into his chair and picking up the book that he must’ve dropped to the floor when he’d gotten up to assure Deckard the first time. And suddenly, Deckard’s confused.

“Hang on, I showed up at your porch in the middle of the night. On top of that, it would have been a good hour before I passed out. And you probably spent another hour or so patching me up. Have you slept since I woke you?” 

The question seems to catch Hobbs off guard. Deckard rolls his eyes.

“I’m not a  _ complete  _ arse Hobbs, I  _ do  _ have manners. Did you sleep?”

One side of Hobbs’ lips twitch up in a half-smile.

“No,” he admits. “But it’s fine. You needed help and I was afraid you would choke on your own blood if I left you here on your own.”

Deckard shifts guiltily underneath the duvet, which he just realizes must have been pulled up over him.

“You wouldn’t have to leave me,” he wheedles, gesturing to the bed with his good arm. “I don’t bite… unless of course you want me to,” he tacks on with a roguish wink. But the initial offer itself isn’t sarcastic. Like he said, he  _ does  _ have manners. He wasn’t raised in a sty.

“I don’t think you’re ready for something as athletic as that just yet,” Hobbs replies with a smirk.

Deckard opens his mouth to argue--the dimwit hasn’t slept for close to  _ 20 hours _ !--but Hobbs beats him to it.

“Relax, princess. If I really get tired enough, I can sleep in this chair or I can move the couch in here and take a quick nap. You need the rest and the space more than I do.”

Deckard rolls his eyes but allows it. Hobbs knows his limits. And yes, Deckard really  _ could _ use the recovery time. As if given a signal, his eyes begin to get droopy. To be fair, he hadn’t slept for two nights straight, either. And the bed is  _ warm _ .

Hobbs, taking the victory for what it is, settles back again and pulls the book up to eye level. 

_ Pet Sematary _

Huh, interesting. He never took Hobbs for the horror type. 

Even as his eyes close and his subconscious begins to wander, Deckard opens his mouth,

“Don’t get too attached to Jud.”

Hobbs’ affronted exclamation follows him into his slumber.

… 

The next time he wakes up, the chair next to the bed is vacated. Unsettled, but not panicked as he was the first time he woke up on the bed, Deckard sits up stretches, surprised when his newly stitched up wounds don’t do much more than twinge and the bruises seem more like a faraway ache than anything. He wonders where Hobbs is, and whether 

“And where do you think you’re going, hotshot?” Hobbs’ irritating voice sounds from the door, and he looks up with his mouth open to retort back at the man, only to stop short. He raises a questioning eyebrow instead.

“Breakfast in bed, love?”

“You know I live to pamper you, sweetie,” is the sarcastic response that he gets back.

“Thanks darling,” he snipes back as Hobbs sets a plate in his lap. 

Remembering his manners, he waits until he’s finished eating before he goes to speak. 

“How long…?”

“Including the seventeen hours from before, you’ve got thirty-three hours total.”

Deckard takes in the bags under Hobbs’ eyes. They’re not terribly apparent, but they’re more noticeable than they were before.

“I remember you saying something about dragging the couch in? What happened to that?”

“And leave you unprotected?! Never!”

Deckard tosses the now empty plate at Hobbs in retaliation; the tosser already has his hands out in preparation to catch it. 

As Chewbacca goes into the kitchen in order to put the plate into the sink, Deckard swings his legs over the side of the  _ very comfortable  _ bed and wiggles his toes. He’s still got his pants on-- _ thank god for small mercies, if Hobbs had seen that bite mark on his thigh _ \--but his torso is bare, which he guessed at. There’s a full length mirror in Hobbs’ bedroom, so he gets to his feet carefully and ambles slowly towards it, wanting to inspect the condition of his body for himself. He looks like rubbish, but the stitches on his right shoulder and arm are exceptionally neat. 

Hobbs appears behind him in the mirror with a smirk on his face. He even goes as far as to step up directly behind Deckard and place his sausage fingers on Deckard’s hipbones, which are just visible above the waistband of his low-riding pants.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’re still beautiful to me,” the big wanker says, squeezing teasingly at his hips. Deckard rolls his eyes visibly in the mirror. Then, he turns around in Hobbs’ grip and rests his still-bandaged palms on the man’s pecs (read:  _ tits _ ), batting his eyelashes up at him. 

“I would say the same about you, but I think we both know that I’d be lying,” he snarks back, hooking his foot around Hobbs’ ankle and pushing him with the hands on his chest, forcing him to let go and windmill with his arms to keep his balance. He shoots Deckard a stink eye to which he responds with a two-finger salute. 

“Can I use your shower, love?”

“Only if I can hop in there with you, sweetcheeks,” Hobbs calls over his shoulder.

“You know you’ve already got an invitation, handsome,” Deckard calls back in a sultry tone, putting a swing in his hips for Hobbs’ benefit.

“Go pretty yourself up, I’ll join you in a second, honey-bunches.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, babyface,” Deckard flirts as he shuts the door for the loo behind him.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when his and Hobbs’ hateful banter turned into flirting with one another, but it gives him just as much satisfaction as their previous arguments used to, so you won’t hear any complaints on his part. Besides, he has even more of an opportunity to make slights at Hobbs, which he takes as a victory. 

Upon finishing with his shower, he takes the towel he finds and dries off with it. He then ties it around his waist and saunters out of the loo, which has gotten steamy from his hot shower to the point where its suffocating him. He decides to parade back into Hobbs’ bedroom to put on his pants again. Hobbs is sitting on the made-up bed with  _ Pet Sematary  _ back in his hands. He looks up when Deckard makes his way into the room, clad in the towel.

“You didn’t join me in the shower so I thought I’d bring the party here,” Deckard flirts. He sits down on the bed and does some fancy maneuvering to get his pants on underneath the towel. He manages with minimal wiggling, which Hobbs snorts at him for. Deckard throws his towel at the man in retaliation. 

“Where are you?” Deckard asks, gesturing with his chin towards the book when Hobbs raises an eyebrow at him questioningly. 

“Rachel got stuck at the gas station for the night, Jud fell asleep, and Louis buried Gage’s body in the ceremonial grounds.”

Deckard makes a face.

“Only goes downhill from there.”

“Wonderful.”

Hobbs tosses a shirt at him without looking up from the book.

“Cheers, mate.” Deckard pulls it on. 

It’s big on him, but not by much: Hobbs wears everything five sizes too small anyhow. Deckard absentmindedly wonders if he scavenges through his daughter’s closet every morning for clothes. He asks Hobbs this and gets the towel thrown back at him.

“Your guns and knives and everything else are on the table by the front door.”

“I’ll pick ‘em up on my way out, thanks dear.”

“Anytime, princess, you know I’d do anything for you,” Hobbs deadpans without even looking up from his book. 

Deckard goes to leave the room, but stops at the door and turns back to face Hobbs.

“Seriously, thanks Hobbs,” Deckard says, his voice quiet.

“Like I said, Shaw: anytime,” Hobbs replies, and for one split second, Deckard actually  _ doesn’t  _ hate the man.

“I’d never pass up the opportunity to have you in my bed, baby.”

Aaaaaand, there’s the hate again.

Just to spite him, Deckard calls back over his shoulder as he leaves the room,

“Don’t get too attached to Rachel, either.”

Hobbs’ infuriated squawk echoes in his ears as he gathers his effects and shuts the front door behind him.

… 

A week or so later, Hobbs gets a postcard from Siberia.

_ Met some people the other day, one of them was tall, big, ugly, looked like he’d just bounced his head of a wall recently. Reminded me of you! _

_ Missing you, _

D.S.

Hobbs laughs so hard that Sam comes into his room to check on him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Easy, darlin’, don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore,” Hobbs’ hand slips in between the floor and his stomach, easily finding the entry wound and pressing a hand against that, too, stemming the blood flow on both sides.
> 
> “Thought you… liked it… when I was noisy…” Deckard wheezes out, trying to turn his head to look at Hobbs properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeehaw, I'm back boiiiis. The world's falling apart but I might as well have a little bit of fun. Hope you enjoy!

_ Fuck, he’s downed. He’s downed. _

The bullet to his abdomen has him wheezing as he runs, fleeing the scene. He’s got a hand pressed to the wound as he shoots down his followers with the other hand. It’s a good thing that he took enough of them out in the first place because there aren’t many people left to follow him. He manages to take the last one down as he hops onto his bike, leaving a trail of bodies behind him as he takes off. There’s no one following him once he’s on wheels. They’ve taken too much damage for that. Deckard had made sure of it. But suddenly, he’s thinking that maybe he’s taken a good amount of damage too; The abdomen wound that’s bleeding profusely and the bike careening at over a hundred miles per hour aren’t a good combination. His vision’s getting blurry and his stomach’s getting queasy.

_ Fuck _ , _ he needs help _

When he shows up at Hobbs’ house this time, he bypasses the front door and climbs in through the back window as Hobbs had instructed him to do the last time he’d been here, which was about his third. Deckard had no way to know whether or not Samantha was home, and the window reduced the chances of him running into her. And it was an unspoken rule that he was to avoid interacting with her at all costs. So he crawls in through the window that connects to Hobbs’ room and crashes to the wooden floor, letting out a pained groan as his body starts to shut down.

“Hobbs…  _ Hobbs _ …” his voice is raspy and noticeably desperate, and he would chastise himself for it if not for the fact that he’s got a bullet in his abdomen that’s slowly emptying his body of its blood. The bullet had gone clean through, leaving two points on his body that he’s bleeding from. He knows it’s the exit point at his back that he has to worry about more, seeing as how it’s the bigger hole in his body.

He presses his hand to the wound harder, trying to rise to his feet, but he can’t bring himself further up than on his knees. One of his hands is pressed to the ground, keeping him from toppling over sideways, and his knees are pressed into the hardwood floor. His vision is swimming too much for him to get his bearings about him. God, if this is how he dies he’s going to be  _ so pissed _ .

As if summoned by the idea of him dying, Hobbs enters the room. He sees Deckard on his hands and knees immediately and swears, hurrying over to him. He lands on his own knees next to Deckard, who lets himself slump back to the ground with a groan, spent. 

“Hobbs…” 

“Hey princess,” Hobbs’ voice is distracted, but his hands are as careful as ever, easily finding the exit wound and putting pressure on it.

Deckard lets out a whine and arches into the floor, trying to bow his back away from the pain.

“Easy, darlin’, don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore,” Hobbs’ hand slips in between the floor and his stomach, easily finding the entry wound and pressing a hand against that, too, stemming the blood flow on both sides.

“Thought you… liked it… when I was noisy…” Deckard wheezes out, trying to turn his head to look at Hobbs properly.

Hobbs carefully lifts him up from his sprawl on the floor so that he’s sitting up, propped up facing him. Deckard can’t seem to bring his head to work with him, feeling too disoriented and out-of-it to do much with it other than flop. Unaware of how close Deckard is to unconsciousness, Hobbs tightens his hold on the wounds, trying again to stem the blood flow. 

The bright bite of pain is too much, and Deckard cries out again, eyes fluttering.

As he loses consciousness, he hears a muttered  _ ah shit  _ in front of him, and he has a split second to belatedly agree with the statement before the black catches up with him and drags him under.

… 

He comes to, half naked, in Hobbs’ bed again. Looking up, he can see Hobbs sitting in that damn armchair again, eyes fixed on a book, a different one this time. Huh, who would’ve thought that Hobbs was such a bookworm? Not him, for sure.

He lets himself stretch, bringing Hobbs’ attention to him. He hides the wince that comes with the unexpected but sharp pain from his abdomen, and he runs his hand down under the blanket to analyse the wound. 

“Touching yourself down there, princess?” 

Deckard sends Hobbs a sultry smile, arching his back slightly.

“You know how hot you get me, love, can you blame me?” he sasses back, pitching his voice low.

“I guess I can’t,” Hobbs replies with a self-satisfied smirk, putting his book down on the floor and leaning back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly.

Deckard very obviously lets his gaze trek down Hobb’s body to his crotch, then flits his eyes back up to meet his eyes again, biting his lip. Hobbs is smirking still.

“Easy, darlin’. I don’t think you’re up to anything that athletic just yet. But I’m sure you can keep playing with yourself, no harm, no foul,” Hobbs says, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“That so? You want a show, sweetheart?” Deckard leers at him.

“You know it, baby. Watching you’s more than enough for me,” Hobbs responds, making a show of grabbing his own crotch and rolling his hips up into his hand.

Deckard finally cracks, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Pervert,” he snarks.

“Priss,” Hobbs returns.

Deckard pushes the blanket back, ignoring the oaf for the time being in favor of propping himself up and getting a look at the wound himself. It’s bandaged up neatly, but not excessively, and Deckard can feel the lines of nice, even stitches below the bandages if he presses hard enough.

“Up to your standards?” Hobbs asks, watching him.

“It’ll do,” Deckard replies, flopping back onto the bed. “How long?”

“Not long. About 17 hours. I called Hattie again and let her know. You didn’t get any other calls.”

“Figures.”

“What was it this time?”

“Nobody again. Wanted me to do his dirty work, take down a base.”

Hobbs lets out a low whistle.

“Just you?”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, Twinkle-toes, but I don’t work well with others.”

“Still, you’re pretty banged up. One of these days, he’s going to get you killed.”

Deckard snorts.

“Not like it’ll be a great loss or anything,” He knows the score, knows what he is, and he’s made his peace with it. Made peace with how he’ll probably go out. Better to die fighting for the right cause after doing dubious business for so long. So no, he’s not mad or anything. He’s a mercenary with little to lose, which makes him the best kind.

Hobbs is frowning, though.

“What do you mean?”

Deckard swings his legs over the side of the bed--he’s got to get going. He reaches for the sweater Hobbs has set out for him, nodding his thanks at the man as he does so.

“Come on Birdbrain, even you can’t be that daft; I’ve got the experience, and I’ve got no ties. No one to apologize to if shit goes wrong, no loose ends to cover up. Why wouldn’t he send me out, even if it’s going to be a death mission? The outcome doesn’t matter as long as the job gets done,” he answers absentmindedly. It’s not that he’s insecure or anything--he knows his worth. He knows he’s important to a few people, but he also knows that said people can go on if something ever happened to him. It’s just the way they are, the way his life’s always been.

Hobbs looks disturbed, though. He looks like he’s thinking hard for something to say in response. Deckard saves him the hassle, thinking of the other man’s warm home, his sweet daughter, and his reliable job and friends. Hobbs probably doesn’t understand the lifestyle that Deckard leads. He probably never will.

“Easy, love. Think too hard and I’m going to have to take the batteries out of your smoke alarms.”

And that gets a snort out of Hobbs and a flipping of the bird in his direction. 

Deckard ignores it for the time being and shrugs on the sweater, meticulously pulling it down so it doesn’t get caught on his bandages. He feels the stitches pull and he lets loose a quiet groan, pressing a hand to the bandaged wound.

Hobbs catches the noise.

“You sore, baby?” he asks, his voice teasing, but his eyes serious.

“Not too much, hotness, just moved too quickly.”

But Hobbs isn’t satisfied. He stalks up to him, gripping Deckard by the hips and pressing forward, forcing Deckard to take a few steps back to avoid bumping, face-first, into Hobbs’ chest. Hobbs moves until Deckard is up against the wall with the other man crowding him in. 

Deckard smirks, letting his hands come up to rest on Hobbs’ hips. The other man smirks back at him, pressing the shorter man’s hips into the wall further.

“You like that, princess?”

Deckard trails his hands up from Hobbs’ hips, running them over the man’s muscled stomach, ribs, and pectorals before coming to a rest on his shoulders. The thin t-shirt that the other man is wearing does little to hide the contours of muscle from Deckard’s wandering hands, and the shorter man has to admit that he’s begrudgingly impressed by what he’s felt through the cloth. Not that he’ll ever express the thought.

“You know I like it rough, cowboy.”

Hobbs lets his fingers catch on the edges of Deckard’s sweater, and he draws it up slowly, teasingly, not breaking eye contact with him as he does it. His lips are still turned up in a leer that’s not meant to be taken as anything other than playful. 

Still, Deckard doesn’t back down, knowing that Hobbs is really only checking on his bandages, wanting to see if they’re stained red. The shorter man instead chooses to dig his blunt nails into Hobbs’ shoulders and arch his back slightly so that the shirt comes up easier. He tilts his head slightly down so that he’s looking up at Hobbs through his eyelashes, giving him a look that he knows screams sex.

Hobbs’ lips twitch, and he breaks eyes contact momentarily to take a look down at the bandages, letting the tips of his thumbs brush over the indents of Deckard’s ribs, where he’s holding up the sweater. Upon seeing no stains he lets the jumper go, letting it fall back to cover the bandages.

Deckard straightens slightly, expecting Hobbs to take a step back now that he’s finished inspecting the wound, but he’s caught slightly off guard when Hobb’s hands slide back down to his hips to push them back into the wall.

He meets Hobbs’ eyes again, and he sees that the big bastard is smirking, still. The bigger man even goes a step further to press himself even closer to Deckard, so that their bodies, hips-to-chest, are now pressed together.

Deckard never one to step back from a challenge, just arches slightly again, pressing their bodies even closer together. He moves the hands that were on Hobbs’ shoulders--one to wrap around the back of Hobbs’ head and the other moving down slightly to rest against his pectoral. He can just feel the other man’s nipple under his thumb, and he makes a point to move his thumb back and forth against it.

He sees Hobbs’ nostrils flare, and he smiles internally. 

Hobbs leans down slightly until his mouth is on par with Deckard’s ear.

“You know, I think I like you like this, beautiful,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the cool skin.

“Yeah?” Deckard breathes back for his benefit, tilting his head slightly so that it looks like he’s offering his neck to the other man.

He hears a husky chuckle from the other man at his display, and he finds that he has to bite back a snicker of his own.

“Yeah, dollface. Like having you like this, all desperate for me,” the bigger man husks, squeezing where he has his hands on Deckard’s hips.

“I’m always desperate for you, dreamboat,” Deckard doesn’t miss a beat.

“Like the idea of doing anything I want to ya,” Hobbs continues, not giving in either.

But Deckard knows how to bring this home.

Hobbs’ body is still pressed to his, but he’s leaned back slightly, enough that he can look at Deckard without going cross-eyed, and Deckard takes advantage of this. He moves the hand that was on Hobbs’ chest to the collar of his t-shirt, making sure to give a cheeky rub to his nipple as he goes. He tangles his fingers in Hobbs’ collar and pulls him down slightly.

He tilts his head up slightly, so that the other man’s mouth is just a breath away from his own. and makes sure Hobbs can see his eyes flutter shut as he lets out a sultry moan. He blinks his eyes open slowly, seductively, and leans in so that  _ his  _ mouth is at Hobbs’ ear. 

“ _ I’d let you do anything you want to me _ ,” he whispers.

And it does the trick.

Hobbs’ already twitching lips open in a laugh, and he lets go of Deckard’s hips and takes a step back, still chortling.

Deckard is smiling, too, as he steps away from the wall.

“Pussy,” he says with no real heat.

“Next time, babydoll. Next time I’ll have you,” Hobbs says, waving a hand dismissively at him as he bends to pick up the book on the floor that he’d dropped earlier, flashing the title at him as he does.  _ The Book Thief _ . 

He cringes sympathetically. 

“The ending’s not too happy for that one, mate.”

Hobbs raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Read this one, too?”

Deckard shrugs.

“It’s a good book, one of Hattie’s favorites. And I read a lot when I was younger. Still read a lot now.”

“Never took you for a bookworm.”

“You’re one to talk,” Deckard responds.

“Fair enough,” Hobbs concedes. He pauses for a moment, then asks, “Not too happy how?”

“Guess you’ll have to keep reading to find out,” Deckard says flippantly.

“Oooo, harsh.”

“Trust me, you’ll like it better this way.”

Hobbs’ lips twist up in that familiar smirk again, and he steps up to Deckard again, getting in his space. Used to this by now, Deckard just tilts his head slightly to meet his gaze, not stepping back.

“I can think of another way I would like it,” the bigger man says, his eyes sliding suggestively from Deckard’s face to the wall that they had just been pressed up against.

Deckard lets out a startled laugh and reaches out, trailing the tips of his fingers over Luke’s chest.

“Sorry, darling, but I’ve got to get going.”

He trails his fingers across Hobbs’ body as he makes for the door, teasing him. 

“You’re going to leave me alone like this?” Hobbs’ voice is playful.

“I’m sure your imagination will do the job, dear,” he tosses back as he saunters to the front door.

“Damn straight it will, gorgeous,” Hobbs calls after him as he goes.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, Romeo, don’t be shy now,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the other man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I'm actually updating within 15 days of my last update, this is crazy. Is this what productivity feels like? Not gonna lie, I got a little hot under the collar writing this chapter. Hope you all enjoy!

Deckard knows as he limps up to the house this time, hand pressed to his bleeding flank, that Samantha Hobbs is home. He keeps an eye on the windows, looking for silhouettes and trying to stay in the shadows to avoid being spotted by any should there be one. He hobbles his way to the back of Hobbs’ house without too much of a hassle, which he takes to be a win seeing as how he could probably be mistaken for someone with a peg leg with the way he’s walking. 

He hopes Hobbs’ neighborhood isn’t the nosy type, with those middle-aged women who stand at the window for hours just to get the dirt on the others. He wouldn’t know for sure; he’s only seen the type in the cinema, but what does he know? 

He manages to find the back window that leads to Hobbs’ bedroom. From what he can see, most of the lights inside are out. He’s not surprised; it’s relatively late. If he were any other average person, he wouldn’t be up and about at this time either. But  _ ah _ , he can’t really be considered normal, can he—the peg leg that he currently is. 

He breathes a sigh of relief as he finds the window to Hobbs’ room open as it makes his life monumentally easier. He was  _ not  _ in the mood to twiddle his thumbs and throw stones at the window like a crappy romance novel character until Hobbs decides to notice him. Had that window been shut, he would have picked himself up and called it a night, but he knows even as he thinks the thought, that he’s not being entirely honest with himself.  _ So what, who’s gonna call him out on it? _

Pressing himself to the wall still, he tries to gauge whether or not Hobbs is in the room. Usually, he would hop right in, but he’s not in any life-threatening condition and Samantha is home. He respects the unspoken ground rule that Hobbs has laid down wordlessly, and he’s not going to violate it. Honestly what kind of daft idiot would he be? 

He sees a shadow move inside the room, and he quickly presses himself further into the wall, out of sight, until he can decipher the shape and size. He would crouch but his bad leg is very abjectly telling him that that’s not going to happen, so he remains upright, slowing his breathing. The light from the house creates a square of light on the damp grass, and thus Deckard can see the shadow of a person cut through the beam of warm light. He promptly relaxes. He’d recognize that big egg-head anywhere. It’s just Hobbs. 

He listens carefully for a few more minutes anyways, trying to figure out if Samantha is in the room, or even awake in the house. Again, he’s not going to test the careful hospitality that Hobbs has established with him. He’s not going to lose the basically free aftercare he gets after a gig.  _ And here I thought America  _ didn’t _ have free healthcare. _

He doesn’t hear anything inside the house, but still he hesitates anyways.  _ What if Samantha is awake in the house? He’s never shown up with her in the house before. Would it be different? Would Hobbs turn him away? _ And there’s something he hadn’t thought of before. He freezes, mind racing. What if Hobbs turned him away? What if this broke the unspoken truce that they had established?  _ Shit, why did Deckard even come here in the first place? Why did he keep moving after he realized that Samantha was home?  _ He’s seen the way that Hobbs treats his daughter—he clearly thinks the world of her, would do anything for her. He wouldn’t want Deckard anywhere near something that important.

He looks down at himself thoughtfully, reconsidering his injuries. He’s not as hurt as he was the past few times this had happened. He hadn’t even been shot this time; it was just a two slash wounds, neither of which were terribly serious. He was bleeding a good amount, and his leg was pitching fits, but, again, this is nothing that he hasn’t been able to deal with on his own before. Shit, he’s dealt with _worse_ on his own before. He doesn’t need Hobbs’ help for this one—he can handle it on his own.

Before he can make the conscious decision to move away, however, he hears Hobbs move inside, footsteps drawing closer to the window. He curses internally, thinking quickly. Hobbs is going to see him—he won’t be able to move quickly enough to avoid being spotted, not with the way he’s limping.  _ Fuck _ , Hobbs’ll probably be startled by him.  _ Who wouldn’t be startled by a bleeding, half-deranged, peg-leg, stalker-esk figure hovering outside their window? _ And with that thought, Deckard’s moving to intercept before he can think the action through. He sees, almost in slow motion, Hobbs’ head appear in the window and he watches as those eyes latch on to him, mouth opening in bewilderment.

“ _ What the f— _ ” 

Deckard quickly moves directly in front of Hobbs, clapping the palm of his clean hand over Hobbs’ mouth. He feels Hobbs let out a short breath under his hand, then close his mouth, apparently assuaged as he recognizes Deckard. They both stand in silence for a few painstaking moments, trying to gauge whether Hobbs’ cry had roused anyone. Once again, Deckard fiercely hopes that Hobbs doesn’t have nosy neighbors. And for once, his prayers are answered: The night remains still around them, and Hobbs’ home remains silent, Samantha still undisturbed. 

Deckard removes his hand from Hobbs’ mouth, letting out a quiet breath and stepping back, so he’s not quite as in the other’s space as he had been.

Hobbs opens his mouth again the moment Deckard’s hand is clear.

“ _ What the fuck? _ ” Hobbs whispers furiously. “ _ What the hell are you doing? _ ” 

And that, more than anything, reminds Deckard of his previous concerns. He should’ve known better than to come here with Samantha in the house. What was he thinking?

_ “I was just leaving. I didn’t realize Samantha was home,” _ Deckard whispers back, trying to soothe the other man before he blows his top. A vein is bulging on Hobbs’ forehead that tells him that Deckard had really startled the other man and that he didn’t exactly appreciate it. He goes to take another step back, eyes drifting to the side, calculating the distance back to his bike and the shortest path he can take when Hobbs suddenly reaches out the window and grabs the arm pressed against his bleeding flank by the elbow. Deckard, despite himself, hisses quietly when the blood-stained hand comes free from the stinging wound. Hobbs glances at the newly revealed blood-stained hand, and his eyes then dart to Deckard’s side, where the hand had been keeping pressure.

“ _ Don’t be ridiculous, you’re hurt. Get in _ ,” he whispers, gripping Deckard more tightly when he attempts to take another step back.

“ _ Your daughter— _ ” Deckard starts.

_ “—is sound asleep _ ,” Hobbs cuts him off, voice still quiet, but steady. “ _ She sleeps like a rock; a round of fireworks wouldn’t wake her up, so you definitely don’t stand a chance. Get in, and I’ll help you. She won’t know. Trust me.” _

And Deckard does trust him, as much of a big bastard the other man is. 

His leg decides to make the decision for him, giving out underneath him. Deckard staggers slightly, and Hobbs, surprisingly intuitive, sees him going down and pulls on the elbow he’s still holding, pulling Deckard closer to the window frame so that Hobbs can grab his shoulder with the other hand. He holds Deckard steady as he tries to get his bearings about him, balancing shakily on his good leg. He even holds on as Deckard tests his weight on his other leg, getting it to hold him up. After a few moments, Hobbs speaks up again.

_ “Alright, leg and side, anything else?” _ Hobbs pulls him closer to the window, rearranging his hands so that he can help support Deckard as he grabs the frame with his clean hand and lifts himself, hoisting himself in. Hobbs backs up to give him the room to land on the wooden floor, letting go for a split second. Deckard manages to move from outside to inside without any problem, but the moment his bad leg hits the wooden floor of Hobbs’ bedroom, it gives out again, making him stagger.  _ Fucking bugger _ . 

Hobbs—the big bastard—is there again. He steps forward quickly enough, arms outstretched, to catch Deckard by the hips before he hits the ground this time.  _ Of fucking course _ . Deckard kind of wishes he’d bolted when he had the chance, at least that would have been less embarrassing than  _ this. _ God, did he hit his head somewhere along the way, because at least that would explain the fucking rom-com that his life has suddenly turned into. He hears Hobbs snicker at him, probably thinking the same thing, and decides to at least somewhat salvage the situation. He leans deeper into Hobbs, moving his clean hand to cover Hobbs’ own on his hip.

“My hero,” he gushes, batting his eyelashes up at the man.

“Knew you were falling for me, darlin’,” Hobbs responds, and Deckard just has to scoff at the line because,  _ god  _ that was  _ terrible _ .

But his previous humiliation is at least somewhat forgotten so he supposes that it’s a win. And he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he gratefully leans against Hobbs until his leg finally regains enough feeling to support him properly. He balances himself on it gingerly, and upon finding it adequate, pushes against Hobbs gently to prop himself upright. Even after he’s steadied himself, Hobbs’ hands stay on his hips, a cautionary move meant to catch Deckard if his leg decides to give out on him again.  _ God the considerate fockin bastard—  _

Deckard eyes the hands with a raised eyebrow before slowly trailing his gaze up to Hobbs’ face. 

“Can’t keep your hands off me, love?” he questions through gritted teeth as they move towards the bed.

“You know me, gorgeous, I’m a touchy-feely person,” Hobbs says distractedly as he lets go of Deckard for a quick moment to grab a towel to spread on the bed before carefully pushing Deckard himself on it. 

Deckard sighs in relief even as his flank burns white-hot abruptly before fading back into its dull throb. Hobbs is already on the move, ambling over to the window to slide it shut, drawing the drapes, before heading into his attached bath to grab supplies before he’s back in front of Deckard again. Deckard eyes him with half-lidded eyes, one hand still pressed to his side, but Hobbs isn’t looking at his face anymore, more focused on his side. He gingerly peels Shaw’s hand away from the wound again, more carefully this time, grimacing at the sight of the blood. 

“Lift up,” he says, all-business. And Deckard obeys with a coy, “My my, eager aren’t we?”, lifting up his arms so that Hobbs can pull his sweater over his head. 

“I just can’t bring myself to be patient with you, gorgeous,” Hobbs deadpans back, eyes already focused on the wound, feeling it out.

“Not one for foreplay?” he questions the bigger man through gritted teeth, falling back on the towel spread out over the bed when Hobbs pushes a palm flat into his chest to get him to lie back.

“Depends on my mood babydoll. Sometimes I just want it hard and nasty.” Hobbs shrugs noncommittally.

“Hmmmm, I’m not sure if  _ I’m  _ in the mood for that, darling, but we’ll see what we can work out,” Deckard snipes back.

“I’m sure we can work something out, I’m a  _ very  _ considerate person. A giver, not a taker, if you would.” Fucking Luke Hobbs, of fucking course. But then again, he  _ is  _ lying on the man’s bed, bleeding, receiving free medical help from someone who he’d not so long ago  _ thrown out of a window _ . Not to mention that said man’s  _ daughter  _ was also in the house. So Deckard decides to keep his mouth shut, not refuting the statement.

He hears Hobbs step back for a moment, presumably grabbing something, before he returns, gently pressing Deckard’s legs apart where they’re dangling off the bed so that he can stand between them. Deckard smirks, but says nothing.

He feels Hobbs wrapping something around his injured leg, near his thigh. The man tightens it to the point where it’s uncomfortable, and Deckard shifts as he feels the circulation to his toes cut. He raises his head off the bed slightly to look down at what it is to find that Hobbs has wrapped a rubber cord, similar to a FlexBand, tightly around his thigh, presumably to act as a tourniquet.  _ Fair enough _ . He lets his head drop back again, staring at the ceiling fan as he feels Hobbs start cleaning the wound on his side. 

A comfortable silence falls over them, and it lasts through Hobbs cleaning the wound first with water, then with antiseptic and then stitching it up. When he goes to bandage it, however, Deckard waves him off. It’s just a slash wound, and it’s one that’s not very deep to begin with. Hobbs shrugs, not too concerned, then starts poking at the wound on Deckard’s leg. He undoes the tourniquet slowly, seemingly satisfied with how the wound has stopped bleeding, not that it was bleeding much in the first place. Deckard eyes him, knowing what has to happen if Hobbs is going to be able to dress the wound properly. 

He smiles slowly, deciding to take it easy on Hobbs just this once and dissolve the awkward tension that’s begun to permeate the air. 

“Come on, Romeo, don’t be shy now,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the other man.

“What happened to foreplay, princess?” Hobbs taunts back, taking the bait and reaching out a hand to help Deckard up when the other man tries to pull himself into a sitting position without pulling his stitches. 

“You’re the one who said you wanted it hard and nasty,” Deckard reaches down and pops the button on his trousers. 

He notices Hobbs eyes on his hands and decides to pull down his zipper slowly, arching his hips up subtly. After the zipper’s down, he smirks and lays back again, raising both his legs and making a pointed glance at Hobbs’ hands.

“Go on, make yourself useful, love,” he gestures to his trousers with a hand.

Hobbs, never one to step away from a challenge, smirks and moves forward slightly. He reaches out and palms Deckard’s clothed hips then hooks his fingers in the waistband of his trousers, deliberately tugging downwards, pulling them lower.

“I thought you’d never ask, sweetheart.” 

He almost lazily drags the pants down Deckard’s arse, then pulls them tantalizingly down his legs, caressing the bare skin of Deckard’s thighs and calves with his knuckles as he goes. Deckard props himself up on his elbows and watches Hobbs with half-lidded eyes, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Hobbs maintains eye contact with him, letting his eyes drift obviously from Deckard’s own, down to his caught lip, and back again. Deckard represses a snort—barely— but he can’t quite stop the tremor of his lips, and he sees the way Hobbs’ own lips are twitching slightly, trying to repress the man’s own laughter.

Hobbs steps out of the cradle of Deckard’s legs when he drags the pants low enough. Then, he abruptly lets go of the pants and instead runs his hands up Deckard’s calves to rest them on the outsides of his thighs, just beneath where his boxers end. He rubs his warm hands sensuously up and down the outsides of Deckard’s thighs, brushing the bottom hem of his boxers each time. Then, still maintaining eye contact with Deckard, he kneels down in front of him, dragging his hands back down the outsides of Deckard’s legs as he does. 

Deckard watches as Hobbs unlaces Deckard’s laced up boots, undoing the knots carefully and loosening the laces before pulling the boots off of each foot. He eyes Hobbs’ fingers lazily as they then trail up his ankles to pull his socks off, too. 

Hobbs then hooks his fingers back in Deckard’s pants, which were caught around his knees, and continues to pull them down again, caressing with his knuckles as he goes. He works one of Deckard’s feet out of the pant leg, then the other, placing each newly freed foot on his own wide shoulders, spreading Deckard’s legs wide in what he’s sure is a wanton pose. Deckard can just see the picture that they probably make. Deckard, on his back on the bed, naked except for his boxers, with his feet planted on each of Hobbs’ shoulders, spreading his legs like a common whore. Hobbs, kneeling down in front of him, face between his spread legs, face level with Deckard’s crotch, and hands at the outside of Deckard’s thighs, caressing once again. They probably look like a scene from a porno.  _ A damn good porno _ , he thinks privately to himself.

Deckard lets out a muffled snort, unable to hold it in anymore.  _ Only Hobbs could give him as good a competition as this.  _ Hobbs cracks slightly, too, letting out a snicker. And it was over; they both fall into uncontrollable laughter. Deckard pulls his feet off of Hobbs’ shoulders and drops them back to the floor. Hobbs raises himself up from his knees, getting to his feet, chortling. 

“Tie?” Hobbs asks.

“Tie,” Deckard affirms, still sniggering.

Hobbs shakes his head ruefully and moves back into the cradle of Deckard’s legs with a washcloth and a bottle of antiseptic in his hands, getting back to business.

A comfortable silence falls over them once again as Hobbs cleans and stitches up the slash, which has already stopped bleeding. When Hobbs is stitching up the skin, his warm fingertips brush occasionally against the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. He can tell it’s not intentional on Hobbs’ part this time at least—he’s just trying to get the stitches in properly—so Deckard decides not to tease him about it. And, alright, he’s enjoying the almost caressing touches, and he doesn’t want Hobbs to become aware and feel awkward and stop doing it. The comparably soft skin of his inner thighs has always been a hot spot of sorts for Deckard, but, of course, he’s sure as hell not going to tell  _ Hobbs  _ that.

Finally, Hobbs finishes off the stitches on his leg and runs a careful hand over them, checking their neatness as he absentmindedly tosses the needle back to the bedside table. He ends his probe with brushing the tips of his fingers on the insides of Deckard’s thighs again, and suddenly, Deckard realizes that he hasn’t been as subtle about enjoying the touch as he thought he’d been; Hobbs has clearly noticed.

“Getting a little carried away there, love?” Maybe taunting Hobbs will salvage his pride.

“I don’t think  _ I  _ was the one getting carried away, princess,” Or maybe not.

Still determined to win, Deckard props himself up with his elbows and brings his legs up slowly, caressing the outsides of Hobbs’ clothed legs with his own bare ones until he can wrap them around Hobbs’ waist. He hooks his ankles together in the small of Hobbs’ back and tenses the corded muscle of his thighs, forcing Hobbs to move closer to the cradle of Deckard’s hips. Hobbs indulges him, smirking.

The other man shuffles closer so that their hips in closer proximity—not quite touching but close.

“You  _ did  _ say that you liked me on my back,” Deckard breathes, trying to sound as if he’s affected by Hobbs’ proximity. 

Hobbs grins, leaning over slightly so that he’s leaning over Deckard on the bed. He braces himself with a hand on the mattress, next to Shaw’s head. The other hand, he drags sensuously up Deckard’s good leg—which is still clamped around Hobbs’ waist—spreading tingling warmth from his knee to his thigh.

“Well, how could I possibly resist such a beautiful picture?” 

Deckard smiles sultrily at him, only to almost choke as Hobbs continues speaking. 

“But I’d like you better on your front, shoulders down, ass up.”

Deckard furiously fights back the urge to splutter out a laugh and covers up his split-second shock by trailing his own hands up Hobbs’ torso. He lingers on the man’s abs—again—then continues to move upwards, thumbing Hobbs’ nipples—again—as he goes. Hobbs’ nostrils flare at the contact. 

_ Almost there _ , Deckard just needs something extra to bring this home. 

He tightens the grip of his legs around Hobbs’ waist, bringing him even closer to that their hips are pressed together. He tries not to think too much about the specific bits that are pressed together; They’d pressed close to each other before in their previous games, but their hips had never actually lined up because of the height difference, but with their current positions, Deckard’s movement brought their crotches flush against one another.

_ Had he gone too far? _ Deckard chances a look up at Hobbs’ face—serious this time—asking a question without actually voicing it.

Hobbs answers by squeezing the hand that’s still resting against Deckard’s thigh and grinning.

“Actually, I think I’ve changed my mind; I like you better on your back after all.”

_ But damn it all, that just meant that Deckard hadn’t won yet! _

He takes a second to ask himself how much this game actually means to him, and how far he’ll go to win it. And he finds, almost instantly, that’d the answer is  _ pretty damn far _ . 

He looks up at Hobbs again and figures that if the other man has held out for this long, that he’s probably as driven as Deckard finds himself to be.

No one has ever called Deckard Shaw a coward, and it becomes glaringly obvious why when Deckard promptly rolls his hips against Hobbs’.

He sees Hobbs’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and he can’t help the smirk on his face.  _ Victory is within grasp _ . He rolls his hips again, making a quiet but obscene sound that he knows that Hobbs can  _ just  _ catch. He blinks slowly up at Hobbs, who has yet to make a move, whether it be towards him or away, upping the stakes or admitting defeat.

Deckard can almost taste the sweetness that is victory on his tongue.

Then Hobbs grins, a glint in his eye. Deckard has a split second to realize that,  _ fuck  _ he’d underestimated him, before the other man shifts the hand on Deckard’s thigh to his hip to hold him in place and rocks his own hips back against Deckard’s. As if that wasn’t enough, Hobbs then bends the arm that he’d had braced against the bed, next to Deckard’s head, so that he’s instead resting on his elbow instead of his hand. This presses not only their hips together, but their whole torsos, and Deckard can feel Hobbs’ chest rising and falling against his own as he breathes. 

Deckard tries to hide his surprise, but he already knows he’s lost this round. But  _ dammit  _ he’s not going to give it to Hobbs without a fight. So he moves his own hands from the tops of Hobbs’ broad shoulders to the backs of them instead, and drags his blunt nails across Hobbs’ shoulder blades. 

Hobbs doesn’t even blink,  _ shit _ . He instead moves even closer, gently nosing at the skin of Deckard’s neck.

Deckard makes a show of tilting his head so that Hobbs has more access to the pale column of his neck, and he arches his back sightly, pressing even closer to Hobbs, and grasps the cotton of the t-shirt at Hobbs’ shoulders in his fists. He lets out another quiet, breathy whimper and rolls his hips against Hobbs’ again, trying to get a reaction.

Hobbs gives him one; He drops his head so that his mouth is hovering near Deckard’s ear and lets out a low groan, tightening the his hold on Deckard’s hips and rocking back into him as he does. 

_ Damn, that actually sounded good, even if it was a bit exaggerated _ .

Deckard just manages to keep a straight face but he knows that Hobbs can tell that he’s slipping.

_ “You think you could cum like this, princess?” _ Hobbs brings it home.

Deckard bursts out laughing.  _ God fucking dammit but whatever he’ll give Hobbs this one.  _

He hears Hobbs’ own chuckle against his ear before the man pulls back, pushing off the bed and straightening. Deckard lets go of the fabric he’d fisted at the back of Hobbs’ shirt and drops his legs from around the man’s waist, still laughing. He has to toss a hand over his face to cover his eyes because he knows that if he looks at Hobbs’ face he’s just going to start laughing even harder.

It takes him a good amount of time to stop laughing, and even then small snickers keep escaping him. He removes the hand from his eyes to finally look at Hobbs, who has spent the time in which Deckard was laughing to clean up the materials he’d used to patch him up. Even he’s still shaking his head ruefully.

“Done giggling like a virgin, princess?” Hobbs stoops down to pick up Deckard’s pants and sweater on the floor, setting them down on the bedside table instead.

“I can assure you, I’m probably the furthest thing you’ll find from a virgin, darling,” Deckard starts to shift, adjusting himself so that he’s lying lengthwise on the bed. Hobbs sees him move and steps over, drawing back the thick comforter and helping Deckard slip his legs underneath it. He pulls it up over Deckard after he’s made himself comfortable. Deckard bats his eyelashes at him.

“No goodnight kiss, handsome?”

“Not this time, darling. With the way you lost it earlier from a few words, I don’t think you’re ready for a good kiss just yet.” Hobbs moves back from the bed and flicks off the main light, turning on a lamp on the bedside table instead. He settles back into the armchair that’s still stationed in the room and leans back, making himself comfortable.

Deckard would smack him, but he’s moved out of range, and he’s finding that he likes the warmth under the heavy blanket more than he does the prospect of getting out to chase Hobbs down. So he settles for rolling his eyes at the other man from the warmth of the blankets, instead.

“Go to sleep, beautiful, I’ll wake you up early in the morning,” Hobbs sends him a half-smile.

Deckard rolls his eyes again but lets them fall shut.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

But he’s drifting off either way.

… 

He hears Hobbs shuffling forward, reaching out to him, and he opens his eyes, turning to face the other man. 

“I’m awake.”

Hobbs looks grudgingly surprised.

“I thought you were asleep.”

Deckard shrugs as he pushes the comforter off his legs and stretches.

“I was.” 

Hobbs is clearly confused.

“Then how were you awake?”

Deckard sends him an unimpressed look as he gets to his feet, testing his weight on his injured leg to note happily that it doesn’t hurt.

“I woke up. You’re usually brighter than this Hobbs.”

Hobbs rolls his eyes.

“I meant how did you wake up so fast, hotshot.”

Deckard leers at him as he pulls his sweater over his head.

“Not all of us need to sleep like Sleeping Beauty, love.”

Hobbs just rolls his eyes again.

“Why do I even try?”

Deckard takes pity on him as he shimmies into his trousers.

“I’m a light sleeper. Always have been. I heard you moving up.”

Hobbs seems perplexed.

“I was quiet, though.”

Deckard nods, affirming the statement and he does up his button and fly.

“You were. I’m just a light sleeper.”

“Why the hell do sleep that lightly?”

Deckard smiles humorlessly, suddenly reminded of a childhood with two scared younger siblings and a former Royal Navy soldier father who taught his lessons with his fists rather than his words.

“Some lessons are stick with you for a long time,” he tells Hobbs, not looking at him.

Even with his back to the other man, he can feel Hobbs considering him.

“Strict parents?”

Deckard snorts at that, subconsciously trailing his fingers along his left thigh, where he knows a scar that came from a bullet tells a story that he doesn’t want to remember. The first bullet that he ever took—age fifteen—and it came from his own father.

“Something like that,” he says, his voice quiet. 

He turns back to face Hobbs, wanting to thank him, only to see him eyeing the hand that drifted to the scar on his body. He’s suddenly reminded of the fact that Hobbs had seen him, near naked, last night, and had touched him plenty, too. And, observant as the man admittedly is, he would have seen the scar and could have made an educated guess about its origins. And now, Deckard had basically revealed the perpetrator.

He stiffens and drops his hand from his thigh, knowing even as he does that it’s too late to stop the gears turning in Hobbs’ mind. If anything, the gesture just proved it. 

When Hobbs takes a step towards him, he stands his ground, staring defiantly at the other man as he continues to approach, stopping only when he’s standing in front of Deckard. He’s waiting for the taunts, bracing himself for them—the kid who was abused by his own father, his own blood: pathetic.

He’s not expecting Hobbs’ hands coming up to rest on his hips, gentle and clearly meant to be comforting. He’s not expecting the disturbed look on Hobbs’ face or the barely concealed anger there. Anger not directed  _ at _ him, but rather  _ for _ him. 

_ Empathy _ , he thinks absently,  _ or is it sympathy? He always gets them confused. _

“That’s messed up, beautiful,” and Deckard sees nothing but sincerity. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Deckard shrugs awkwardly, not meeting Hobbs’ eyes, more thrown off than he would like to admit.

“It is what it is,” he says, shrugging slightly.

“Did your siblings get hurt, too?” Hobbs is voice is as gentle as his hands always are, but there’s underlying anger simmering beneath the surface still. And Deckard suddenly realizes that Hobbs had said  _ siblings _ , as in plural—he wasn’t just asking about Hattie, he was asking about Owen, too. Owen Shaw, who had caused Luke Hobbs pain and trouble at one point in his life. And Luke was asking about his safety and was genuinely concerned for the answer.  _ Jesus, this man _ .

“...Not as badly. I protected them when I could,” Deckard is staring at a point over Hobbs’ shoulder, seeing fists and blood and pain and fear that were better left forgotten.

“Come back to me, darlin’. Whatever it was it’s over now. You’re safe,” Hobbs brings him back, squeezing his hips and looking at him with beseeching eyes. 

“I know.” Deckard answers unthinkingly, thinking of Hobbs’ warm hands and his constant gentleness, his kindness and his care. He finally meets Hobbs’ eyes, and repeats, almost absently, “I know.”

Hobbs smiles at him, and they stand there, looking at each other for a few more moments. No raunchy jokes, no flirting, no over-the-top touching. 

Deckard breaks eye contact first, feeling uncomfortable, unused to the kindness that Hobbs puts forward so easily. He clears his throat and takes a step back, gently pushing Hobbs’ hands off of his hips. Hobbs lets him, watching him as he moves towards the window, opening it.

“I’ll just hop out this way. Wouldn’t want to run into your daughter,” his voice sounds gawky for some reason. As if its out of place in the air that’s been created.

Hobbs nods without saying anything.

“Thanks Hobbs. I…I really appreciate it.” 

Hobbs smiles slightly—that little half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anytime, beautiful.” And again, there’s nothing but absolute sincerity there. Honesty.  _ In both of the words _ , Deckard suddenly realizes. He glances at Hobbs, and the other man, almost as if he was expecting it, smiles back at him, a wider one this time. There’s nothing mocking in it, Hobbs is being unapologetically honest, and he wants Deckard to know it.

Deckard feels his face heat up in a blush and he turns away from Hobbs, swinging himself out the window and carefully hurrying away, keeping to the shadows provided by the early morning dusky darkness. He hops onto his bike and takes off, trying not to make  _ too  _ much noise as he accelerates away. The whole time, his face remains warm despite the chill of the early morning air.

_ Luke Hobbs thinks he’s beautiful. _

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Our boi's been through some rough times and rough people, but he's got Hobbs now. Let me know how you felt about this chapter in the comments! (please I need encouragement lmao)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Ideally, this will be updated soon, but knowing me and my late self, it may take a few days or weeks, even. I will finish this, though -- I'm not one to leave things half-done. Until then, hope you enjoyed! Comments are welcome, hate is not. Stay safe, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smell of burnt flesh permeates the area around him, the unceremonious pile of bodies, burnt beyond recognition, having met the same fate as the dried and yellowed grass crunching beneath his combat boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, guys, it's a long one. A bit more fluff thrown in. Sorry for the long wait, life's just been chewing me up and spitting me out lately. Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

The smell of burnt flesh permeates the area around him, the unceremonious pile of bodies, burnt beyond recognition, having met the same fate as the dried and yellowed grass crunching beneath his combat boots. 

Deckard suppresses the urge to retch.

_ These were children _ .

How could  _ anyone  _ do this to  _ children?! _

He’d been given files on the missing kids, at least 30 in number, and he’d sat and studiously memorized each and every one of them on the plane ride that had dropped him off here. Smiling faces had looked up at him from each and every manilla folder, and he’d found himself smiling back at them, mystified over their innocent smiles and cheerful dimples and the gaps in their teeth. None of them were older than fifteen. 

Half of them weren’t even older than ten. 

He steps closer to the pile and reaches out to it, uncaring of the stench that he knows will stick with his skin and the sight of disfigured, melted skin. His hands are gentle as he lifts the body of the person on top of the pile and sets them gently on the ground. He repeats the process with each and every child, lying them out parallel to one another and taking apart the crude monument built from their suffering with each one. 

He identifies them as he does, pushing back the bile in his throat as he matches each smiling, innocent face to this burnt, wretched parody. Some are their faces are melted into expressions of fear, their final moments of agony forever written out on their features for the rest of existence. Expressions of terror that should never grace a child’s face even momentarily, let alone endlessly. He lays the bodies on the ground meticulously, allowing them to gaze at the sky with their sightless eyes, hoping to every god that he knows that these children had at least been allowed to see the sky before they were burned to death.

He looks down at the row of children that he’s laid on the ground, all facing the sky. 18 bodies. 18 children who would never go home to their worried parents. 18 children who would never learn something new, who would never love, would never laugh, would never smile again.  _ God, it broke his heart.  _

He hasn’t prayed in more than a decade, but he gets on his knees in front of these children whose lives had been cruelly cut short, clenches his eyes shut, bows his head, and prays. He prays that they find peace in death where they were denied it in life, and he hopes that they’re happy, wherever they may be. He’s never believed in life after death but it’s shit like this that makes him want to. So even though he doesn’t believe in it, he’ll get on his knees and pray because if any god or deity is listening, hopefully they’ll take pity on these poor children and give them some form of peace.

When he finally can bring himself to open his eyes, they’re focused again, and he rises to his feet with a steely determination. He’d been given 30 files. There are only 18 bodies here: There’s a chance that at least some of them are still alive. There’s a chance that they can still be saved. He sends a quick text to Nobody, telling him of his findings and his plan of action, and receives an affirmative within the minute. He’s about to tuck his phone back into his pants when it lights up with another message:

_ Expect company _

Deckard sighs, knowing there’s no point in arguing and not very much in the mood to do so anyways. Nobody’s team will be able to take care of these children better, and provide any medical service they might need. He refuses to even consider the prospect that they might already be dead.

And with that thought and a final look at the children’s bodies, he turns and approaches the base that he’d been scoping out for the past hour or so. When he first arrived, he’d been looking for a way in, for any guards, but it seemed that the building was rather poorly fortified. 

_ Maybe they didn’t bother because they thought no one would come looking,  _ Deckard thinks, hands tightening into fists.  _ Well, either way, they were about to regret it. _

Deckard had seen the pile from a distance and had initially written it off as a trash pile of some sort, but an uneasy feeling had lingered with him, sitting heavier and heavier in his stomach as he continued to scope, and finally, he had decided to approach it. 

_ Those poor, poor children _

Deckard scales the building from the outside easily enough, finding holds for his hands and feet and not packing enough gear for climbing to be a hassle. The building isn’t extremely tall, and there’s a balcony near the top—probably to be used for the view. It shouldn’t be heavily guarded and there’s a lesser chance of running into someone there than the door. He’s not looking for confrontation; those children are waiting somewhere inside—he’s not going to let them wait anymore. So he pulls himself up onto the balcony after a quick look around and enters the building, readying his gun just in case, but not feeling terribly inclined to use it. Stealth not confrontation. He wasn’t going to let those kids be hurt because of his own inability to look past his anger.

And with that thought, he moves, quietly and quickly throughout the dark, winding hallways, relying heavily on his memorization of the rough blueprint of the area that he’d been provided. He catches sight of a few people walking around with guns, and his rage simmers with the glimpse of each one, but he suppresses it fiercely. 

_ The kids. He needs to help the kids. Everything else can come later.  _

The sight of the people makes his blood boil, but the sight of the guns makes that same blood freeze in his veins. He wonders if these people threatened the children with these guns, if the children had come to fear what they represent.

_ Stop. Stop thinking about it, he needs to find the kids—he needs to stop distracting himself with his own anger. _

He decides quickly that the most likely place to store the children would be the large basement underneath the facility; It was large, there was only one exit point to guard, and it wouldn’t be noticed should someone without prior knowledge happen to sweep the area.  _ Luckily,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ he reckons he’s got plenty of prior knowledge to rely on—thanks to Nobody.  _

He manages to get to the basement with no hassle, but as he approaches the door, using the cover that the wall provides, he realizes abruptly that there’s two people guarding the door.  _ Too easy—and he gets an outlet for his anger as well! Win-win situation in his eyes. _

He puts them down quickly, quietly, and efficiently, making sure to cover their mouths with one hand as he breaks crucial bones with the other. He hears muffled screams from his victims and he finds it within himself to chuckle darkly.  _ Had the children screamed like this? Did these people sit and watch and do nothing? _ When the two pass out, it’s from the pain that Deckard has inflicted on their bodies, lighting up pressure points and snapping bones beneath his fingers like twigs, emboldened by his rage. 

He drops their unconscious bodies to the ground one after the other, stepping over them carelessly as he makes his way through the door they were guarding _rather poorly, if he does say so himself._ He puts away his gun as he descends down a dark set of stairs—he doesn’t know if there’s any more people guarding the children in the room itself, but he knows for a fact that’s he’s not going to even risk the _possibility_ of scaring the children by running in guns ablaze. They’ve probably seen enough of guns to last a lifetime.

He makes it to the bottom of the staircase and finds a stuffy storage area, dimly lit with a stale smell to the air. As his eyes adjust to the room, he scans his surroundings carefully, lingering at the foot of the stairs. Finally, he sees them.

The children are huddled near the corner. Their hands are bound tightly behind their backs and their mouths are gagged to keep them from crying out. They watch him with wide, terrified eyes, using their bound feet to push themselves further into the wall when he begins to slowly approach them. 

Deckard counts twelve of them, and something inside of him loosens.  _ They’re here, and they’re alive. For the time being at least.  _ But he knows right as he meets the eyes of each and every one of them that he would rather die than let anything hurt these children again. If anyone wants to touch them, they’re going to have to step over Deckard’s cold, dead body first.

He gets down on his knees and puts his hands out in front of him, palms up, showing the children that they’re empty. He eyes them carefully. The majority of the children aren’t white, and from the files that he’d memorized, he knows that most of them probably don’t speak English.

Still, he tries.

“English?” he asks quietly, trying to appear as unthreatening as he possibly can. The children stare back at him with wide eyes, probably too scared or too confused to speak. He can feel his anxiety peaking—he needs to get these children out, but he needs them to trust him first.  _ He’s not going to approach any of them without their permission. After what they’ve been through, it’s the least he can offer.  _ He asks again, tamping down on the sense of urgency that rises in his stomach, “English?”

There’s another long beat of silence, all of the children looking back at him, unresponsive. He doesn’t know if it’s because they don’t understand what he’s saying or because they’re too frozen by fear. He can feel his stress rising.  _ Bugger it all, they need to get  _ out _ , and they don’t have the time to be playing a game of charades every time he needs to say something. _

A rustle.

His eyes dart instantly to where the sound came from, squinting slightly as the dim lights make shadows dance in the corners. One of the children is nodding carefully, eyes fixated on him. Her skin is dark, but it does little to hide the blossoming bruises across her face. Her eye is swollen shut, and her once wild, curly hair has been cropped, leaving her with a shaved head. Even then, Deckard recognizes her.

“Fayola, yes? You’re fourteen years old,” he keeps his voice quiet and soothing and refrains from approaching the child, seeing her fear through her tentative bravery. They need to leave, but he can’t rush this. So he stays put where he’s crouched a good ten feet away from her, at the foot of the stairs, and keeps his voice soothing and quiet.

The eye that isn’t swollen shut widens slightly, and, once again, she nods hesitantly. Deckard can see her tentative hope, and he pounces on the opening it gives him.

“I’m here to help. I’m with the police, we’re here to rescue you,” he talks slowly and keeps his words simple, not knowing the child’s proficiency with the language. “Do you understand me?”

Fayola nods again, more enthusiastically this time, her desire to be helped trumping her fear.  _ Good, that’s good. The faster the better.  _

Once again, Deckard is reminded of their innocence, of their youth; they’re so trusting despite the situation they’re in. He tamps down his anger, not letting it seep into his voice. The last thing he needs is the children thinking that he’s angry with them. 

“Can I come to you? I’m going to untie you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Fayola nods again, quicker this time, less hesitant. Deckard moves forward slowly on his knees, making sure to keep his empty hands out in front of him, appearing as nonthreatening as he can. The child next to Fayola still shies away from him, her brown skin marred with cuts and bruises. He focuses on Fayola for the time being, but alters his body weight in an imperceptible manner so that he’s facing Fayola more than the other child. She relaxes slightly.

He reaches out to Fayola’s face, keeping his movements slow and talking to her as he does, telling her what he’s doing and offering her words of comfort. “I’m going to take this out of your mouth so you can talk to me, alright? You’re doing great, darling, you’re so brave…” His words are patient and calm, not betraying the mounting fear and urgency that sits like a pit in his stomach.

He reaches behind her head and undoes the knot carefully before pulling the dirty cloth out of her mouth. Fayola opens her mouth and closes it repeatedly, stretching it out. She runs her tongue over her lips, which are chapped and cracked, and Deckard wishes he had water on him, to offer it to her.

“Thank you,” her voice is so quiet that Deckard has to strain his ears to hear it, but that doesn’t make it any less sincere. “You are police?” she talks with a thick accent, and Deckard guesses that her English is stilted. Probably a second language.  _ Good enough, honestly. He’ll take it. _

He nods, offering her a smile, trying to get her to trust him quickly. He doesn’t know the rounds of the guards, and he doesn’t know when the two guards posted at the doors were meant to be relieved. He suddenly regrets not hiding the unconscious bodies of the two. It would have bought him more time.

“Your mum and dad are looking for you. All of you,” he adds, looking to the other children, who are watching the proceedings with wide, scared eyes but hesitant hope.

“Help. Please help,” Fayola whimpers, and suddenly her eyes are filled with tears, and they overflow, tracing over her face and leaving trails in the dirt and dust that’s stuck to it. Deckard feels his chest ache.

“I am, luv. I’m going to get you all out of here,” he chews on his lip then decides to take a chance as the girl trembles terribly, her emotions spilling from her body in quiet, heart wrenching sobs. “Can I hold you?”

Fayola hesitates for a few seconds, then nods. Her face crumples, and Deckard gently puts his arms around her, placing his hands in the middle of her back and rubbing her spine, which juts out against his palms. He moves one hand to the back of her head and tucks her face into his neck, being conscious of her bruises. He keeps his touches light and in safe areas. Fayola shakes against him, whimpering quietly into his neck.

“Shhh, darling. It’s alright. We’re going to leave this place. I’m going to help.” Fayola nods against him, nuzzling slightly to the best of her ability. “I’m going to untie your hands, alright sweetheart?” she nods again.

Deckard quickly undoes the ties. It would probably be faster if he cut through them with his knife, but he doesn’t want to scare any of them. When her arms are free, Fayola sighs slightly, rolling her shoulders and bringing a hand up to scrub at the unbruised side of her face. Deckard moves his own fingers to her shoulders, rubbing them gently, hoping to at least somewhat ease the pins and needles that he’s sure she’s feeling. “Let me untie your legs now, alright, darling? I’m so proud of you, you’re being so brave.” She gives him a weak smile and he reciprocates it, moving to untie the binds from around her ankles. He tosses the rope aside and rubs his fingers gently over the red skin he finds there.

“Thank you,” Fayola says again, hiccuping slightly as the last of her tears die away.

“Of course, dear. I need you to answer a few questions for me, alright?”

Fayola nods quickly.

“Do you know if the others speak English?”

“All do. Little bit.”

Deckard feels relief course through him. At least there aren’t any language barriers to make this any more difficult than it needs to be.

“Do you think you can stand up?”

Fayola nods again.

“Do you think you can walk, run?”

She nods once more, and with more confidence this time.

“Alright, good girl, I’m so proud of you. I’m going to help everyone else, too, alright? Can you help me untie them?”

Some of the children still seem scared of him, but he’s sure that they won’t be as afraid of Fayola as they seem to be of him. Usually, he would take more time to get them comfortable with him, but they don’t have the time. They may not trust him completely, but they’ll want to take the chance that he offers of getting out of here, so they’ll at least listen to him. 

Fayola nods again in response to his question, her face taking on a determined look. Using Deckard’s shoulders at his prompting, she pulls herself to her feet. She’s shaky, but after a few seconds, it passes. Still, Deckard holds onto her elbow as she takes a few steps away from him, just in case her legs give out on her. But they hold her, and she seems to be becoming more steady the longer she stays on them.

_ Good, that’s good. They’re not too weak. That’ll make this easier.  _

“That’s it, Fayola. Can you help me untie everyone now?”

Fayola nods confidently and moves slowly towards the girl next to her, who leans her head forward as she approaches, making it easier for Fayola to reach the back of the gag. It takes a little bit, but the gag comes off, and Fayola moves forward quickly to pick at the knots binding the girl’s hands back.

“Ahana, yes?” Deckard asks the girl, and she nods up at him after a single beat of hesitation. She seems less afraid than she was before, and Deckard’s infinitely happy for it.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” Deckard knows the answer from the file, but he wants to make conversation with the girl, needs her to trust him. He needs all of them to trust him.

“Twelve, sir,” she answers, and Deckard can hear the slight intonation of an Indian accent. She seems to be more fluent in English than Fayola.

“No need to call me sir, dear,” he says absently, eyes darting to the stairs, straining his ears to see if he can catch any noise that would point towards his presence being known.

Ahana nods carefully. She rubs at her wrists, which have been freed by Fayola, who has moved onto the bonds at her legs.

“What… What can I call you?” Deckard’s surprised at the question, but he smiles at the girl anyways, and she smiles tentatively back.

“My name is Deckard. You can call me Deck if you want..”

Ahana nods again, mumbling a quiet thank you to Fayola once she gets her feet untied. Fayola smiles back at her and nods before moving onto the next girl, who shuffles forward to meet her. Ahana puts her feet underneath her, clearly about to try standing up, but she looks hesitant.

“Can you… Can you help me, please? I’m scared I will fall,” her voice is tentative as she looks up at Deckard, who has settled on his knees in front of her. He smiles at her and moves forward slightly, guiding her small hands to his shoulders and holding on to her elbows as she struggles to her feet. Her thin legs shake underneath her weight, and Deckard clutches slightly tighter when one of her knees gives out on her suddenly. He’s there before Ahana can hit the ground, moving forward so that she can stumble into him and use him to prop herself up. Her small hands clutch at his shoulders for a few seconds, then she pulls back and stands again. The dim lights work against her skin tone, making her brown skin seem pale while the red cuts and purple bruises are highlighted. 

Deckard swallows painfully at the sight of them, trying to swallow his rage. There’s one that stretches across her right cheek and through her lips before ending on her chin. It looks deep and a few days old, but it’s stopped bleeding, so it most likely doesn’t need stitches. She might have to live with its scar for the rest of her life, though.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he’s been caught staring, it seems. He brings his eyes back up to Ahana’s, who’s managed to steady herself. She gives him a small smile when he meets her eyes.

“Do you think it will heal properly?” her voice is small. “I think it looks ugly.”

“Darling, I don’t think anything could make you look ugly,” he says honestly. “I reckon it’d leave a scar, though. A beautiful face with a wicked scar; Pretty  _ and  _ dangerous,” a corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile at the girl, wanting to reassure her. 

Ahana smiles at him shyly and runs an absent hand over the cut, tracing it. They both look over when they hear a rustle to see that Fayola has freed another girl, and has moved on to the one next to her.

“I can help. I can untie,” Ahana says, and, at Deckard’s nod, moves to another tied up girl.

_ Good, they’ll move faster that way. They can get out of here quicker. _

He watches them for a moment, rising to his feet, then takes the time to scan the faces of the rest of the children.

_ All of them are girls,  _ Deckard realizes. He scans the faces, attaching names to them.  _ Mei-Shin, Imani, Anvi, Azami, Kishi, Mercy, Layla, Rayne, Ira, and Osveta.  _ None of them are under the age of twelve or over the age of fifteen. The younger kids and the boys had all been in the pile Deckard had found earlier. Deckard suddenly realizes why these girls were kept around.

_ He was going to kill the bastards. Slowly, painfully. Break all of their fingers, slit their throats, cut off their di— _

“Deck—Deckard?” 

One of the girls is looking up at him.  _ Mercy _ , his mind supplies. He kneels down so he’s at her height.

“Yes, darling?”

“What’re we gonna do? How’re we gonna get out?”

That’s the very same thought that’s been plaguing Deckard’s mind the entire time he’s been in this room. By some stroke of dumb luck, all twelve children are alive, and relatively unharmed. All of them are weak, but not so weak that they can’t run, which is more than Deckard had anticipated. But that doesn’t erase the fact that there’s twelve of them, and one of him. He’s willing to bet that if Nobody pulls up with the cavalry before he gets the children out that the goons will be of the mindset to use the children as a bargaining chip, or to kill them altogether. 

So waiting for Nobody to arrive is a big no. 

His gaze moves over each of the twelve faces surrounding him; Fayola and Ahana have just finished untying the last girl, and they support her as she stands with shaky legs, speaking to her in hushed voices as they hold onto her arms while she collects herself. 

The rest of the girls have gathered around him, urgency and fear setting in now that the initial joy of being rescued has worn off. They’re young, but not so young that they’re naive, and he’s sure that they’re wondering just as he is how the hell they’re going to get out of this.

Maybe he could take the children out in small groups? No—he ran the risk of being noticed and having the children left in the basement being taken out. He couldn’t wait either. He could go out and create a distraction and lure the goons away, then come back to help the children? No, that wouldn’t work either—the moment the goons got the sense that they’re in trouble, they might try to come after the kids. Maybe he could use a goon as leverage to guarantee them safe passage? But he’s not certain it will work, and he’s not willing to risk the lives of the girls in a harebrained attempt to find out. What about— 

_ “Long time no see, princess,”  _

Deckard turns, hands raised in a defensive stance even as his mind moves to process the voice. 

_ Fucking Luke Hobbs _ stands at the base of the stairs. 

Deckard can’t even bring himself to roll his eyes at Hobbs’ predictably perfect timing. He’s too rattled by his sense of urgency and the twelve kids who have stumbled behind him in fear of the newcomer.

“Hobbs,” the relief in his voice is obvious, but he doesn’t care.  _ The kids, the kids, they need to help the kids.  _

“What, nothing else, puddin’? Just ‘Hobbs’? You can do better than—” Hobbs takes a step closer, his eyes having adjusted to the dim lighting, and Deckard can see the moment that they settle on the kids. The teasing smile drops of his face as his eyes take in each of their individual injuries, each of their scared, skinny bodies. Deckard watches with a sort of distracted fascination as burning rage becomes apparent in Hobbs’ brown eyes and his nostrils flare as he lets out a shaky breath, clearly trying to keep his calm to not scare the twelve children who peek out from where they hide behind Deckard’s body. Hobbs meets his own eyes, then, and Deckard knows that the look in his own eyes is wild and untamed, too afraid for the children behind him to hide his fear and desperation from the other man. Deckard lets his eyes move down to the children behind him before once again meeting Hobbs’ own, and the message that he’s trying to put forth is clear.

_ You’re scaring them. _

Hobbs gives him a short nod and takes a few steps back so that his features are obscured by the darkness of the stairwell. Deckard turns back to the children, crouching down again to their height once more. They all start asking questions at once, talking over one another in hushed voices and cutting one another off in the process.

“Deck, who’s that—”

“Will he hurt us—”

“Is he your friend—”

“I’m scared—”

“Why did he call you princess—”

“He’s really  _ big _ —”

“He’s scary—” 

“That’s enough of that, now,” Deckard says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. The children all fall silent at once and look at him with big eyes, some afraid and worried and others simply curious.

“His name is Luke Hobbs. No, he won’t hurt you. And…yes, he’s my friend. He’s with the police, too. He’s going to help me get you all out of here, alright? There’s no need to be afraid of him.”

“But he’s so  _ big _ ,” Layla says again, her eyes wide as she stands on her tiptoes, straining to catch a glimpse of Hobbs in the stairwell. “Are you sure he won’t hurt us?”

“He would  _ never  _ hurt you. Do you all trust me?” And by some stroke of luck, all of the children nod easily. “Then trust him, too. He’s big, but he’s kind, and he’s here to help you all just as I am.”

The children all nod again, somewhat hesitantly, and Deckard lets out a short sigh of relief. He needs Hobbs’ help, that much is clear, and the children’s trust will help, too.

“I’m going to go talk to him, alright? We’re going to make a plan. We’re not leaving you here alone, we’ll be right there at the bottom of the stairs, alright? I want you all to do something very important for me,” The children nod again, eagerly this time. “I need you all to listen as hard as you can for any sort of noise from outside. If you hear something strange, come and tell us immediately, good?”

The children have already fallen into silence, tilting their heads towards the ceiling and wandering around the basement in attempts to catch any noise. Deckard hides a smile at the sight then turns back, moving towards the stairwell, where he’s sure Hobbs is simmering silently.

The other man doesn’t even look at him as he approaches, eyes too busy darting from one child to the next, instead, cataloguing their injuries and taking note of their skinny bodies and the red rash where their bonds rubbed against their soft skin. Deckard steps directly in front of him and, after a split-second of hesitation, puts a hand on the other man’s chest, trying to ground him (and himself).

“Snap out of it, big guy,” Hobbs doesn’t even seem to hear him or register Deckard’s hand on his chest, so Deckard uses his other hand to cup the back of Hobbs’ smooth head and tilt it so that he’s looking at Deckard instead of behind him.

“ _ They’re kids,”  _ the other man’s voice is hoarse, and Deckard feels sympathy for a split second.

“They are. Nobody didn’t tell you?”

Hobbs shakes his head. 

“Just told me it was a hostage situation. He didn’t… I didn’t think…”

He’s still looking past Deckard, and Deckard follows his gaze to Ira, who he suddenly realizes looks eerily similar to one Samantha Hobbs. He turns back to Hobbs and moves both hands so that he’s cupping Hobbs’ face between them.

“Hobbs.  _ Luke.  _ I need you here with me. We can help them, but I need you to  _ focus,”  _ he makes sure his voice is soft, but stern, and it does the trick. Hobbs’ gaze doesn’t leave Ira, but his hands come up to hold onto Deckard’s wrists gently, as if he needs the contact, and Deckard allows it. Hobbs finally looks over at him, and when he does, his eyes are focused again. Deckard meets his eyes easily, and they stand there for a few seconds. Luke squeezes reassuringly where he’s holding Deckard’s wrists and Deckard lets go of Hobbs’ face, bringing his hands back to his sides.

“I thought there were thirty of them,” Hobbs is inquisitive, and he looks back at the girls to count them.

Deckard flashes back to the unwelcome sight of the burnt bodies, the sightless eyes, the charred faces—he sees in his mind’s eye the cruel pile that had been built from their lifeless forms, and remembers the stench of burnt flesh that had choked him as he fell to his knees and prayed, and it’s suddenly too much. He feels bile rise in the back of his throat and he forces it down with a painful gurgling sound as he drops his head.

He clenches his eyes shut and breathes meticulously.  _ This isn’t the time, this isn’t the place. They need to come up with a plan and move out—  _

“Shaw?”

Hobbs grasps his elbows and Deckard can feel the other man’s gaze burning into him.

“Shaw— _ Deckard  _ what’s wrong? Where are they?” 

Deckard keeps his head down and his eyes clenched shut and doesn’t say anything, too overwhelmed.

Hobbs lets go of one of Deckard’s elbows and brings the hand to the smaller man’s chin, grasping it gently and using the grip to turn his head up so he can see it. Deckard fights against it at first, pulling his chin out of the hold and trying to step back, step away, but Hobbs doesn’t let go of the other elbow, and he uses the grip to pull Deckard back towards him, wrapping the same arm around his waist and holding him in place when he tries to pull away again. He chases Deckard’s face with the other hand and finally cups his cheek, unrelenting in his grip, and Deckard admits defeat.

Hobbs turns his face up, and Deckard allows him to, but he keeps his eyes closed. Even through his closed eyelids, he can feel Hobbs’ gaze on him, hot and scouring as it searches his face. 

“Deckard—”

“They’re dead,” Deckard whispers. “The fuckers burned them. Burned them to death. I found them in a pile outside. _Kids, Hobbs. Fuck, half of them were younger than ten. And these freaks decided to burn them to—”_ he takes a shuddering breath as his quiet voice, trembling with emotion, breaks. Hobbs is silent, but Deckard can read the anger in the way Hobbs’ arm tightens around his waist, in the way that his breath stutters.

“Eighteen kids, Luke. Four of them were  _ six.  _ And they’re all  _ dead.  _ And it wasn’t quick, or easy, or painless because some  _ cunts  _ decided to fucking burn them alive for entertainment,” Deckard finally opens his eyes, and Luke’s already looking at him, his expression as lost and pained and  _ angry  _ as Deckard imagines his own is. “They’d been stacked up like building blocks. Their faces were melted, and some of them hadn’t even closed their eyes, Luke.  _ Children…”  _

And Deckard has to stop, because if he keeps going he won’t be able to. He’ll want to scream and rage and hit and kick until he’s exhausted with the sheer unfairness of it all, but he can’t do that right now because there are children, living and breathing still, that need their help. He pulls his lower lip into his mouth and bites down harshly on it, looking to the side as he struggles to get himself back under control. 

Hobbs isn’t looking at him any more, instead looking past him to the other oblivious children, tracking them again and cataloguing their various bumps and bruises. But the arm tight around Deckard’s waist stays, and Hobbs’ hand is warm against his cheek. They’re both oddly comforting, as is the semblance of privacy that Hobbs gives him by giving Deckard a moment to get himself back together. 

Finally, Deckard manages to let out a shaky breath and turns his head back to look at the other man, which draws Hobbs’ attention back to him. Hobbs’ gaze is deep and probing as it scans his face.

“Got a plan?” Hobbs asks, his voice soft as his thumb absently brushes over Deckard’s cheekbone.

Deckard manages to quirk his lips. “Would you look at that, She-Hulk’s actually using his brain for once!” 

“Gotta impress,” Hobbs shrugs noncommittally.

“Hmmm, so the only thing it takes for you to focus is a little arse? I’ll have to remember that when you’re in a less than agreeable mood,” Deckard cranes his neck to turn and check on the children, making sure they’re all still accounted for.

Hobbs takes the opportunity to lean into him, tugging him closer with the thick arm still looped around his waist so they’re pressed together. 

“There’s a lot of things that I could say about your ass, princess, but  _ little  _ is not one of them.”

Deckard rolls his eyes but can’t help the small smile that sprouts on his face.  _ Fucking Luke Hobbs, of fucking course.  _ But he’s brought back to the reality of the situation quick enough, and the smile fades. He stays in Hobbs’ hold, though, too bloody lazy to go through the effort of untangling himself from it.

He places his hands on Hobbs’ chest and looks up at him, thoughtfully.

“We can’t wait for Nobody. I won’t carry the kids out into a firefight. I’m not taking the risk of sneaking through and raising the alarm and getting them hurt. I don’t want to leave some here and get them to safety one by one because if I’m noticed the ones left could get hurt before I come back,” Deckard lists off, looking up at the man.

Hobbs nods easily. “You need a distraction, sweetheart.”

“Obviously.”

“So I’ll go out and be one,” Hobbs concludes.

“A whole fucking warehouse and you think that you can—”

“Look, what other options do we have here—”

“I’ll go out and be the distraction. I’m faster and I don’t have the IQ of a piece of mutton—”

“The kids trust you more, they’ll be safer with you—”

“Jesus, don’t pull a fucking Toretto on me, I’m not going to stand here and let you go out and offer yourself up like some  _ sacrificial lamb—” _

“ _ Deckard,”  _ Hobbs cups his cheek again, holding him in place when Deckard tries to push away from him. “You know as well as I do that this is the best way for this to go down. We’re running out of time and our priority is to get these kids out safe. This way, you’ll be able to get them out safe.”

“And what about you, you lugnut? You’ll lure them away, make a bloody scene, and then what? Get riddled with bullets and die?”

Hobbs considers him for a moment then smirks.

“Careful, princess. You’re starting to sound like you care about me.”

Deckard looks up at Hobbs, promptly decides  _ fuck it, he needs to get the other man back for the beautiful comment anyways,  _ wraps his arms around Hobbs’ neck, and pulls Hobbs down to him slightly. 

“Maybe I do,”

_ It’s surprisingly nice to be on this side of things,  _ Deckard reminisces to himself as he watches Hobbs’ face flush with color. He feels the corners of his lips lift in a grin as Hobbs clears his throat awkwardly and shuffles his feet, dropping the hand cupping Deckard’s cheek and avoiding his gaze. Deckard watches him lazily, running his thumbs over the back of Hobbs’ neck and trying futilely to suppress his snickers.

“Fuck off, asshat,” Hobbs says when he hears them, rolling his eyes as he drops the arm around Deckard’s waist, his cheeks still colored.

“Come on, love, don’t be like that,” Deckard simpers as he too steps back, dropping his arms. “I was only telling the truth.”

“Well, while that may be the truth, it doesn’t change the fact that using me as a distraction is still our best course of action.”

Deckard instantly scowls, and he looks away from Hobbs, irritated with the situation, and frustrated by the fact that he’s actually  _ worried  _ for the other man. Fuck, he  _ knows _ (probably better than anyone else) that Hobbs can handle himself in a fight, but the odds are against him here, and the illegal weapons that the goons are packing far outweigh the single pistol that the other man has on his person. And while the other man is built like a human battering ram, there’s only so many things he can burn through before burning out.

“Fine,” Deckard rasps, despite it all. He flips open his phone and sends another text to Nobody informing him of their plan and receives confirmation from him almost immediately. Putting his phone away, he glances over his shoulder at the children again, using them as an excuse to avoid Hobbs’ gaze for a little longer. “I’m going to go tell them.”

He goes to step away from Hobbs back into the dim lighting of the room, but Hobbs catches his elbow and pulls him back before he can. 

“I’ll be okay,” his voice is quiet, but his eyes are beseeching.

“And if you aren’t?” he pitches his voice a bit lower; this is the last thing the kids need to hear.

Hobbs lowers his own voice, too, and his words are husky when they come out, 

“You think I’m gonna let them kill me right after I’ve finally gotten you to tell me that you care about me? Nah, babydoll—I’m gonna live through this just so I can come out on the other side and get you to say it again.” 

And there’s a lot of things that Deckard could say to that, but what leaves his mouth is,

“I’ll be waiting.”

Flustered, he drops his eyes from Hobbs to instead grab his own pistol from his thigh holster, holding it out to Hobbs, who opens his mouth to protest instantly.

“Shut up and take it, you berk. You need it more than I do.”

And Hobbs, by some miracle, shuts up and takes the pistol.

Deckard gives the other man a short nod then heads back to the children, gently brushing Hobbs’ limp hand off of his elbow as he goes. The kids see him coming and scurry to gather around him, looking up at him with big eyes.

“Alright, you lot. Did you hear anything above us?”

He gets a variety of negative answers, and he nods to them absently.

“My friend—Luke—he’s going to go out and lure all the guards away from here. After he does that, we’re going to listen carefully to see if anyone is heading in this direction before moving towards the exit, alright? You all are going to stay close to me, and I swear to you that I won’t let anything happen to any of you. Do you trust me?”

The kids are all in varied states of clear nervousness but they all nod, nonetheless, and it makes Deckard’s heart warm even as it beats to the rhythm of his anxiety.

“Will your friend be alright?” little Rayne is the one who asks the question, and unbidden, Deckard’s eyes dart in the direction of the stairwell, where he knows Hobbs is waiting, watching him.

“He will, darling,” he says to her, crouching down to her height so she doesn’t have to look up at him. She doesn’t look reassured.

“How do you know?” 

Deckard thinks for a moment, once again looking in the direction of the stairwell. He feels the telltale heat that comes with Hobbs’ gaze on him, and he knows that the other man is listening, too, wanting to hear his response.

“He made me a promise,” he decides to say, smiling weakly at Rayne in front of him. “You don’t break promises.”

Rayne nods solemnly in agreement, and it makes Deckard smile just a bit wider before he straightens again, turning back to the stairwell and nodding at the vague silhouette that he can just barely make out. It gives a short nod back to him and turns before pausing, looking back. 

Deckard feels that telltale heat again, and he suddenly remembers the expression on Hobbs’ face after the other man had called him beautiful, and he feels heat rise in his face. Still he keeps his gaze steady and stares back at the silhouette. Another moment passes before the spell is broken. 

With a last, short nod, the silhouette turns and moves into the grainy darkness of the stairs. Deckard strains his ears to hear the booted feet clanking up the stairs, pushing open the heavy door. He hears the door slide shut a second later, and he follows the sound of the other man’s footsteps for as long as he is able before turning back to the children, who all look up at him.

He gestures with his hand for them to follow him, and he leads them up the stairs, checking behind him to make sure that no one is getting left behind. He presses his ear up against the door and listens carefully. The children are silent behind him, old enough to understand the gravity of the situation. 

Deckard can hear the moment that Hobbs starts making a ruckus. He hears a variety of shouts going up in various languages. He makes out a few colorful curses and he hears feet stampeding past, guns being cocked as they go, and he feels his heart rise up to his throat. He breathes deeply, forcing himself to calm down and focus on the children and not Luke. The noise outside the door quiets after a few moments, most of the men having gone after Hobbs, Deckard guesses, and it ratches his fear right back up to where it was before, all deep breathing be damned.

_ Fuck it, he’s worried about the other man.  _

But he forces himself to stay in the moment, and pushes the door open carefully, first peeking out then carefully slipping through the open doorway into the abandoned hallway. His eyes take a moment to adjust from the dim lighting to the now fluorescent one, but the outlook stays the same: There’s no one in sight. Even the two guards who he had dropped earlier are gone, and he wonders absently if Hobbs had taken care of their bodies. He gestures for the children to step outside, not turning back to face them in order to keep an eye on the mouth of he hallway, checking for threats. 

He hears them step out of the dim basement, their light bodies and bare feet making little to no noise as they come in contact with the marble floors. Giving them a few moments to adjust to the change in lighting—which he’s sure they’ll appreciate after having gotten accustomed to the dimness of the basement—he scans the hallway meticulously and prepares a route in his mind to follow to the exit. 

Hobbs is smart, so he would have led the guards in the opposite direction, leaving a clear path for Deckard to follow to the exit. He hears the children begin to shift from foot to foot behind him, clearly agitated, and he reckons they’re as adjusted as they’re going to get, and gestures to them with his hand, telling them without words that they’re going to begin moving forward. 

If he had any hair on the back of his neck, he reckons it’d be rising up right now. The open hallways that Deckard leads the children through, while blessedly empty, leave him feeling exposed and naked. He sends quick, furtive glances behind himself every few seconds, checking on their posterior and the kids as well, doing a quick headcount with each glance and getting a read of their expressions. 

They follow him dutifully, some of them holding hands and the older ones pushing the younger ones into the middle of the group while they take the vulnerable end, trying to offer them some semblance of heightened safety. Some grown men wouldn’t have the same selfless sentiment, and he feels his admiration of them swell with each glance. 

Each blind corner that Deckard approaches makes him tense in nervous anticipation. Their pace is slow, but Deckard doesn’t know the last time these children ate or slept or even had anything to drink, and he doesn’t want to push their tired bodies past their limits. It’s already a miracle they’re all able to walk, and he’ll make do that.

Whatever distraction Hobbs has cooked up, it’s working spectacularly. Deckard takes each empty hallway that he comes across as a blessing, for they all point towards the conclusion that somewhere, on the other side of this damned warehouse, Hobbs is still fighting, keeping the warehouse’s undivided attention. Even then, his mind runs wild with images of Luke’s bullet-ridden body and lifeless eyes. He imagines that big body taking hit after hit before reaching its limit and collapsing first to its knees then its side, blood dribbling from its nose and mouth and eyes filled with pain. It makes Deckard ache to run, to urge the children to sprint as fast as they are able so he can get them outside then bring some sort of help to Hobbs.

But he digresses, proceeding slowly and pauses at each and every corner, waiting for a few seconds to scan the new area before moving forward again. The children, to their credit, stay quiet and stop when Deckard tells them to and move when he moves. They don’t linger too far behind, but don’t clump too close to him to the point where they’re hindering him. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ Deckard approaches the last corner, and, eager to get the children out, he takes it blindly, stepping beyond the safety of the blind corner before properly assessing the situation. He only has split second to shout for the children to stay where they are, still protected by the wall, before he’s diving out of the way of bullets. His hand goes to his thigh holster instantly, and he finds it empty, its occupant with Hobbs. Barely even stopping to feel its loss, he instead grabs the short blades hidden in the folds of his loose cargo pants as he rolls on his shoulder out of his dive..

He holds one in each hand as he straightens, avoiding another stray bullet before charging the five guards who had been positioned at the exit. He spins and lifts his leg to slam the heel of his foot into the first one as soon as he’s close, and the man crashes to the floor, staying down after his head makes painful contact with the hard flooring. 

Deckard uses his momentum from the kick to propel himself forward into the next person who happens to be standing closest. He grabs them by the hand pointing their gun and twists it sharply, breaking the hand at the wrist. Sending off another quick thrust kick to a third who had tried to approach, Deckard then slashes with the blade in his left hand, sending the second guy to the floor as he gurgles and chokes on the blood spilling from his ruptured throat.

He shifts his grip on the blade in his right hand, gripping it by the blade instead of the hilt and throws it, watching it embed itself in the forehead of a fourth guard who had tried to approach him. Just for good measure, he drops down to the floor to sweep his legs out from underneath him so that he topples to the floor.

It’s as he’s coming back up that Deckard feels something hard connect with the back of his head harshly, sending him toppling forward, tripping over the body of the man with the blade in his forehead and falling to his knees, blinded by the abrupt pain that flares up. He catches himself on his hands before he can faceplant, and he instantly gets one foot underneath him despite the dizziness and disorientation he’s feeling from the blow to his head.  _ The kids, they’ll go for the kids if he stays down.  _

He’s already been down for too long, though, and he’s bracing for the sharp pain of a bullet as he struggles to push himself up when he hears a loud yelp behind him.

He feels fear, white and hot, rush through him and he turns frantically, not even bothering to get off the ground.  _ The kids—Had they gotten to the kids—Had they hurt the—  _

The sight that meets his eyes stops him short.

The guard who he assumes had just hit him is on the ground, on his stomach. Ira sits on his shoulders, grabbing him by the hair on the back of his head and smashing his face repeatedly into the ground. Mei-Shin is picking herself up off of the ground and unwrapping her arms from around the man’s knees— _ she had tackled him,  _ Deckard realizes,  _ tackled him from behind and taken him down.  _ Mercy holds the shotgun that Deckard reckons he’d been whipped with in her small hands— _ she had grabbed it out of his hands _ . Layla stands to the side of the man, kicking with all her might at the sides of him, and Deckard can hear ribs cracking even from where he’s sprawled, a few good feet away.

_ Wait, there were five of them—  _

He turns his head again, rapidly, only to stop in stunned surprise once again, staring openly at the scene in front of him.

The last guard is on the ground just like his comrades with the remaining eight girls clustered around him. They kick and beat at him until he goes still. They must have jumped him all at once. Deckard catches a glimpse of Osveta helping Anvi to her feet from where she was poised on the other man’s back. She must have jumped and latched onto the man, using her weight and the added efforts of the other girls to force the man to fall backwards, leaving his vulnerable sides open to the kicks and stomps of the furious children.

Deckard doesn’t realize that he’s laughing until the girls all glance up at him at once at the sound, abandoning the two still guards on the ground and scurrying over to him. They all start speaking at once, their accents resonating in their stilted English as they talk over one another.

Rayne pushes close to him, grabbing his hand while Osveta and Fayola flutter worriedly behind him, tender fingers poking at the broken skin on the back of his head. He continues to laugh, squeezing Rayne’s small hand and using his other hand to gently brush back Imani’s hair from in front of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Azami is crouched just behind Rayne, and he moves his hands from Imani’s face to the other girl’s shoulder, grasping it and squeezing carefully. Azami’s own small hand lands on top of his on her shoulder, squeezing slightly.

_ And to think,  _ he  _ was sent in to protect  _ them. 

“I’m fine, you lot. Don’t worry about me, it was just a small hit.” And he’s serious. His vision has stopped blurring and, while his head is pounding in time with his heart, he’s thinking clearly. It’s not a concussion.

Fayola and Osveta, apparently satisfied by his lucidity, step back in front of him, still with worried expression on their faces.

He looks at them affectionately—at all of them—and smiles. 

“I’m so proud of you all. That was amazing. You saved my life.”

Imani smiles back at him along with the other girls.

“You saved ours.”

After another moment, Deckard starts to push himself into a standing position. Ahana grabs one elbow while Azami grabs another, and Fayola stands in front of him, supporting him when he staggers forward, letting him lean on her for a second as he gets his bearings about himself. He almost sends the both of them to the floor, but Anvi steps up behind Fayola, offering support. The other children hover around them anxiously, eyeing Deckard worriedly.

After a few moments, Deckard takes a few steps backward, away from the support of Fayola and Anvi. His legs hold his weight and his vision recovers from the blurriness that had plagued him rising to his feet. Ahana and Azami step back from him carefully, seeing that he’s able to balance himself.

“Thank you, dears. Let’s get out of here, right?”

The girls all nod and huddle behind him as he heaves open the heavy metal sliding door that separates them from the outside. He scans the area, spotting Nobody and a crew of medics waiting at the ready almost instantly. He almost sags from relief. He quickly gestures the children out of the horrid warehouse at last and explains to them that the medics are here to help them. 

The medics are clearly informed about the situation as they’re careful and slow when approaching the children, who shy away from them and back into Deckard. The medics are patient, and Deckard comforts the children as well, trying to establish the necessary trust to get them to go to the medics.

Fayola meets his eyes steadily, gazing at him for a few moments before glancing back at the medics and taking a deep breath, stepping forward slowly in their direction. The other children watch her go, watch the medics receive her and talk to her in soothing voices, looking her over with gentle hands and endless patience. Deckard watches her with pride, smiling at her when she glances back at him. She gives him a shy grin in return.

The rest of the children watch carefully before carefully approaching the medics one by one, glancing back at Deckard questioningly multiple times as they inch forward, curious. He answers them with a reassuring smile and nod of his head each and every time. Despite knowing that these medics are with Nobody and would never hurt these children, he remains tense, ready to interfere if it seems like any of them are being hurt.

He feels a hand land on his shoulder and he turns his head sharply to glance at its owner. Nobody stands behind him. Deckard awkwardly pulls himself to his feet, accepting the hand that the other man offers to him. Nobody turns his head to call another medic over to look at the gash on the back of Deckard’s head when suddenly blinding panic grabs Deckard.

_ “Luke,”  _ he gasps out. He turns to Nobody frantically.  _ “Luke—he was inside, he said he would make a distraction, we need to—”  _

“Deckard, calm down, he’s out. We got him out. He’s in the one of the medical vans,” Nobody’s calm voice breaks through his panic.

“Is he—”

“He’s perfectly fine. Grumping and growling at the medics who are stitching him up, but he’s fine,” Nobody soothes, using the hand on his shoulder to push him forward, towards another one of the medical vans. The children watch him curiously as he passes by them, and he tries to smile at them despite his heart feeling like it’s about to pound out of his chest. The give him small smiles back, and Mercy even waves as he goes by. He waves back at her distractedly.

“Stitching him up?” he asks Nobody as the other man pushes him into the back of a van and sits him down, leaning out and bellowing for another medic.

“Yeah, the idiot took a bullet to his left bicep and another to his right shoulder. The shoulder one only grazed him though, and it’s not like the one in his arm could make it through all the muscle, so it didn’t do too much damage,” Nobody moves to the side slightly as a medic approaches, a young woman. She gives Deckard a short nod before stepping behind him and poking at his gash.

Deckard hides a wince but continues to probe Nobody,

“And it was just the bullets?”

“He got slashed across his torso and his right arm, but neither were serious or too deep. We came in just as he started to make a scene, and we had backup sent in to his location right away, so he wasn’t facing them alone for too long,” Nobody reassures him just as another annoyed medic flouces up to him, looking irritated. He mutters something to Nobody that Deckard can’t quite catch, but whatever it is, it makes the corner of Nobody’s lips quirk up.

His eyes narrow when the other man glances at him before breaking out into a full smile, leaning back towards the medic and muttering something back to him before sending him off with the nod. The medic looks relieved as he marches away.

Deckard raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to ask but Nobody cuts him off.

“Looks like Luke is causing a bit of a scene,” Deckard gestures at him to continue, mildly suspicious when Nobody sends him a calculating look. “He’s demanding to know where you are. Even when we came in, he was all about ready to rush back inside the building to find you, but we wouldn’t let him. We had to let you come out on your own time with the kids and not rush you and frighten them. Took a lot of convincing, but we got him to settle down eventually.”

“Oh,” Deckard says eloquently, oddly pleased by the revelation.  _ Hobbs was worried about him.  _

Nobody nods again, watching him with that same strange grin on his face still. Deckard averts his eyes, ruffled for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

He diverts his attention to the medic behind him, who’s just finished up with stitching his head closed and gives him an icepack to hold against the wound to address the swelling from the trauma. Deckard nods and thanks her with a smile, getting one in return before she turns to Nobody, talking in hushed voices. Deckard watches them disinterestedly for a few moments, holding the icepack to his head, when suddenly a figure approaching from behind Nobody catches his attention. 

_ Hobbs.  _

He rises to his feet almost absently and slides past the medic and Nobody, not catching the way that Nobody grins from behind him as he approaches Hobbs.

The other man had been looking off to the side— _ in the direction of the children,  _ Deckard realizes—but at the sound of Deckard’s boots crunching through the dried grass, he turns to face him, eyes widening as he catches sight of him.

_ “Deckard,”  _ he breathes, stepping closer and ogling him, grasping him by the elbows while his eyes run over the rest of his body, scanning for injuries. The consideration makes Deckard’s face heat, even as his own eyes track Luke’s frame, doing the same. 

He reaches out to the other man’s arm without realizing it, running his fingers over the neat stitches of the bullet wound where it’s just visible beneath the sleeve of his tight shirt before running the same hand across the other man’s body, dancing over his collarbone, to assess the graze at his right shoulder. His other hand comes up to feel at the bandages on the other man’s torso, where he must’ve been slashed. He does all of this absently, furrowing his brow until he can assure himself that Hobbs is truly alright.

When he puts his worry to rest, he suddenly realizes what he’d been doing and freezes abruptly, one hand on Luke’s shoulder and the other in the middle of his chest. He raises his head slowly, meeting the other man’s eyes. 

Luke is already looking at him, his face set in an expression that Deckard can’t quite decipher. His gaze is heavy on Deckard’s own, and his eyes feel like they’re burning Deckard’s skin with their intensity. He feels his breath catch, and he stares back at Hobbs, unable to look away from the intense gaze. 

He only remembers to breathe when Luke raises his hand to trace the back of his head, running his hand over the newly done stitches on the gash. Deckard lets out his breath in a hiss as the other man prods the lump, and Hobbs gentles his touch instantly, murmuring an apology. Deckard quirks his lips at the other man, and Luke gives him that infuriating half-smile back, moving the hand at the back of Deckard’s head to cup his cheek while his other hand comes to rest on Deckard’s hip. 

Deckard swallows, and Luke’s eyes dart down to his throat to watch the movement, his hand tightening unconsciously on Deckard’s hip. His thumb traces over Deckard’s cheek absently as his eyes move back up to Deckard’s own. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, beautiful,” Deckard flushes with color and Luke smiles at the sight of it, running his thumb over Deckard’s cheek again.

“Likewise, darling,” Deckard responds, surprised by the open sincerity in his own tone. 

Hobbs grins at him,

“I had a promise to keep,” Deckard’s face suddenly feels even warmer. “You don’t break promises.”

He hears a commotion to the side of him, and turns to look at it and finds Fayola being carried by one of the medics, heading in his direction. He steps away from Hobbs and turns to face them, smiling at Fayola as she gets close. She gives him a big, toothy grin in return, and it makes something inside of Deckard want to melt.

“Told me no walking because have no shoes,” she tells him cheerfully.

“Smart man,” Deckard remarks, taking Fayola from the medic when she reaches out to him. He balances her on his hip while she wraps her arms around his neck. She’s pitifully small and underweight for a fourteen year old, but he supposes that comes with the territory. He’s confident that she’ll be healthier in no time, now that she’s out of that horrid basement. But for now, he carries her easily, smiling back at her when she smiles at him. She’s talking a mile a minute.

“Told me I can see Mama again. Told me she waiting for me,” she tells him excitedly, swinging her legs.

“That’s great, love!”

She nods enthusiastically.

“Will tell her about other girls. Very nice. About you. Hero,” Deckard shakes his head at that.

“No, darling, I would have been dead back there if not for you lot. You were all so brave. You saved  _ my _ life.  _ My _ hero,” he tells her, grinning when her dark skin flushes with color. “I just sat there on my bum while you all did all the hard work.”

She laughs at him then.

“And then you all had to help  _ me  _ out the door when I couldn’t stop laughing like an idiot, too,” Deckard shakes his head ruefully but he’s smiling wide, encouraged by Fayola’s giggles. Even with the mottled bruises across her face and her black eye, he can see her beauty every time she smiles.

“Goodness, you’re beautiful, darling. I love it when you smile,” he tells her, honestly, feeling pleased when she smiles shyly again. She runs a hand over her shaved head, and Deckard suddenly remembers the head full of wild curls that she’s initially had.

“No hair,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Bald. Ugly.”

“Well, I don’t think you look ugly, dear. Hair or not, you’re absolutely stunning to me.”

She grins at him again then suddenly runs a hand over his own shaved head, careful of the lump on the back of his head. She points back to her own and giggles again.

“Match,” she says. “Matching.”

He smiles back at her, amazed by her happiness.

Suddenly she points towards Luke, who Deckard forgot was standing there, still. 

“He call you beautiful. We matching. So I beautiful also,” she says cheerfully.

Deckard feels his face flush with color, and he manages to nod at Fayola, ignoring Hobbs’ grin and avoiding his eyes as he abruptly clears his throat and turns to the side again.

“How are the other girls, dear? Do you know?” he asks, half to change the topic and half out of genuine concern.

Fayola nods again, swinging her legs.

“All good. All in van. That way, that way,” she says pointing to another van. Deckard turns to where she pointing, then pauses and looks over his shoulder at Hobbs, who’s still standing there and watching him with an amused glint in his eyes. Deckard clears his throat again and gestures with his head towards the direction that Fayola is pointing.

“Coming?”

“‘Course I am, beautiful,” is Hobbs’ immediate response, and Deckard wants to swear up and down as he feels his skin flush with color again.  _ It’s just the way Hobbs says it—so honest and affectionate—it does things to him.  _

__ Deckard ignores Luke’s chuckle at his face as he turns again and dutifully walks to where Fayola is pointing. He hears the crunch of the other man’s boots behind him, and he’s reassured by the sound,  _ not that he’ll ever admit it—least of all to Hobbs. _

They arrive at the van and the children all crowd to the mouth of it at the sight of them. They all talk with him happily and with more life than they were allowed in that damned basement, and it’s with a real smile that Deckard replies to them, reaching out to hold hands and grasp shoulders and push back hair. When the medic finally comes over to him, it’s apologetically, to tell him that it’s time for the van with the children to go to headquarters, where they’ll be given better medical services and will be able to get in contact with their parents. 

Deckard smiles as Fayola throws her arms around him, clinging tightly to him in one last hug. The other children follow suit, each giving him a hug and whispering their thanks to him. Luke even gets a few hugs himself, the kids seeming to be more at peace with him. Deckard watches as he wraps those big arms around each small child carefully, aware as ever of his strength.

His eyes drift to Luke’s face, and he realizes belatedly that the other man has caught him staring. Hobbs gives him a roguish wink and Deckard can’t help but roll his eyes and scoff. They stand together as the RV’s doors slide shut, the engine starting and taking the children away. He waves at their eager faces looking out the window until he physically can’t see them anymore, and even then he waves for a few more seconds before dropping his hand, just in case they can still see him.

“They really liked you,” Hobbs’ voice is soft.

Deckard shrugs slightly.

“You were good with them,” the praise is light, but it still makes Deckard’s face flame again. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, shrugging again and avoiding Hobbs’ eyes.

“Pretty much raised Hattie and Owen when we were younger, so I got pretty good with kids,” he says quietly.

He sees Hobbs nod thoughtfully out of the corner of his eyes.

“I can see it,” the other man says, nodding again.

Deckard hears footsteps behind him, and he turns to see Nobody approaching the two of them, his previously jovial face suddenly somber. Deckard knows what the other man is going to say before he even opens his mouth.

“You found…?” he asks, his throat suddenly dry. 

Nobody nods, swiping a hand over his face and scrubbing roughly, agitated.

“We’re going to accompany each one to the parents. And we’ll take care of any funeral costs and stay near for a few days to keep an eye on them.”

Deckard nods again, shakily. He lets his breath out slowly, remembering the stench, the faces, the expressions, the  _ youth—  _

There’s a hand on his hip, and he suddenly realizes that Hobbs has put an arm around his waist, hand resting lightly on his hip, aiming to comfort. Deckard, in a moment of weakness, leans against the the other man’s warm body, blinking his eyes closed for a second to soak in the comfort he’s being offered. It’s grounding, and after a few moments he straightens and steps away. Hobbs lets him go without saying a word, clearly understanding without Deckard having to explain anything, and for that he’s incredibly grateful.

When he turns back to Nobody, the other man’s got a small smile on his face, and he looks away with a chuckle when Deckard meets his eyes, looking for an answer. Deckard turns to Hobbs, instead, who shrugs back at him, also at a loss as to what caused the reaction. 

Nobody turns back to them, and his usual easy smile is back on his face, the previous expression gone. He turns to Hobbs.

“Luke, you’ve been cleared, you’re free to go back home. I can get you a ride on the jet and a car back to your place, sound good?” Luke nods, sighing tiredly as his exhaustion and pain sets in.

Deckard knows the feeling.

Nobody turns to him next. “Unfortunately, Mr. Shaw, the medics want you to stay overnight at headquarters. They want to make sure you don’t have a concussion, and we aren’t willing to send you back to London alone. We knows both your sister and brother are out on business, and I understand that your mother is unavailable?”

Deckard snorts.  _ Unavailable is one word for it. Unwilling would be a better one.  _

The last thing he wants right now is to be stuck in the medical room at Nobody’s headquarters for the night instead of an actual bed, and he’s just opened his mouth to protest when Hobbs cuts him off.

“He can come back with me. I’ll keep an eye on him through the night and send him on his way tomorrow.”

At this point, Deckard’s too tired to argue, so he agrees, nodding along with Hobbs’ statement. Better Hobbs’ place than the medical room, in his book. 

Nobody doesn’t seem surprised by Hobbs’ two cents. If anything, it seems as if he was expecting it. Deckard narrows his eyes, but lets it go; bugger it, he can’t be pressed to care at this rate. He feels like he’s going to fall over on his feet now that everything’s over. 

He nods along as the female medic that had stitched him up earlier came up to him again with some gauze in her hand. She instructs him to put it on the wound after showering to ensure that the stitches didn’t pull while he was sleeping. She also gives him some painkillers— _ praise the lord— _ and a set of clothes for him to change into to sleep in. He nods in thanks and follows Hobbs to the jet that’ll take them to California, settling beside the other man with a tired sigh. Hobbs grunts in agreement and slumps back against his seat, closing his eyes and rolling his neck from side to another. Deckard closes his eyes, too— _ just for a second, he just needs to rest his eyes.  _

They’re both asleep before the jet even takes off, leaning against one another in their sleep, Deckard’s head on Hobbs’ shoulder, and Hobbs’ head on top of his.  __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys not gonna lie, I'm kind of in love with Fayola. I didn't realize I'd get so attached to someone who was just meant to be a side character. I might even bring her back later, who knows.  
> To make up for the long wait for this chapter, I'll try my best to have the next chapter up by the end of this week, so keep an eye out for it! Once again, I hope you all enjoyed, and sorry again for the long wait! Stay safe everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beloved concussion-check trope with plenty of added fluff to go around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hesitated with uploading this chapter even though I got done with it pretty quickly. I'm going to put in a TRIGGER WARNING just in case, but it's nothing too serious. Please let me know if it was too much in the comments. I hope you enjoy!

“Shaw, you ass, stop drooling on me,” Hobbs voice, unfortunately, is the first thing he hears when he manages to bring himself out of the near-coma he’d been in. He makes sure to wipe his cheek all over Hobbs’ shoulder before he leaves the comfortable post. Hobbs squawks indignantly and shoves a cackling Deckard off of him. 

He realizes that the jet has landed, which  _ damn, he must have slept through,  _ and he undoes his harness and gets to his feet. Almost instantly, his vision blurs and he staggers,  _ ah right, head wound.  _ Hobbs is there in an instant, hands on Deckard’s hips. 

“Woah, easy there, princess,” Hobbs grins raunchily at him. “As much as I like you ass-up, I don’t think this is the time or place.” 

Deckard would roll his eyes if he didn’t feel that they would roll right out of his pounding head.

“I thought you’d be more daring, handsome,” he teases, leaning into Hobbs’ support gratefully, resting a hand against his chest as the other man keeps him upright.

“Oh I’m plenty daring, but I’m not an exhibitionist,” Hobbs teases. “When I take you, baby-cheeks, it’s gonna be just you and me.”

“Possessive much, caveman?”

Hobbs holds him even as Deckard takes a step away, testing his balance.

“You know me, babe. I’m a private man: What’s mine is mine, and I don’t share.”

Deckard scoffs. Hobbs squeezes in answer before taking a step back, letting his hands drop from Deckard hips, but hovering anxiously behind him as the other man goes to exit the jet. Deckard would complain, but at least this way, if he falls backward, he’ll have a cushion to land on. 

He’s glad for the darkness of the evening as he steps out of the jet. There’s already a car waiting for them, and Deckard heads to it, only to hesitate with his hand on the door handle.

“What’s the holdup, sweetheart?” Hobbs snarks behind him.

Deckard turns to face him.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but Hobbs lets out a groan, cutting him off.

“ I was wondering when you would start,” he sighs. “I know I don’t have to, I want to—”

“I’m perfectly fine, and I reckon I can get a ride somewhere else—”

“ _ Perfectly fine?  _ In what fucking world is this perfectly fine—”

“It’s a head-wound, not a gutshot; I’m not bleeding out, I can think straight—”

“I sincerely doubt you’re thinking straight considering we’re having this conversation—” 

“I don’t want to impose. I won’t even tell Nobody if that’s why you’re doing this, you don’t have to—”

And suddenly Hobbs is pressing forward. Deckard takes a step back, forgetting the car is behind him, and ends up pressed against it with Hobbs boxing him in. 

“Oi, what the f—”

Hobbs claps a big hand over his mouth, and Deckard takes the hint and snaps his mouth closed, choosing instead to glare at Hobbs as the other man smirks, clearly unbothered.

“Listen up, dumbass,” Hobbs’ voice has gone low, husky, and he’s leaning forward slightly, forcing Deckard to tilt his head up to look at the other man.

“I know I don’t have to. I know you can take care of yourself. I know it’s  _ ‘just a bump’.  _ I know you can think  _ relatively _ straight right now.  _ I don’t care.  _ I’m helping you because I want to, not because of some sense of duty or pity. I want to keep an eye on you, and I want to make sure for myself that you’re really alright.  _ You’re not imposing. I want you here.”  _

Deckard swallows slowly, and Hobbs removes his hand from his mouth. 

“Your daughter—” 

“—Isn’t home,” Hobbs interrupts smoothly. “And even if she was, you could climb in the window like you’ve been doing the past few times.”

“I don’t think I’m fit to be climbing anything at the moment,” Deckard mutters grudgingly. 

Hobbs grins.

“I can think of one thing I’m sure you’re plenty capable of climbing right now.”

And this time Deckard does roll his eyes, only to close them tightly with a groan and press the heels of his hands into his eyelids when his vision tilts and his head starts pounding with renewed vigor.

“Here I thought you were smart. Why the fuck would you do that, dipshit?” Hobbs’ hands are on his hips again. 

“And here I was thinking that you weren’t a fucking sadist. How else did you think I would react, numbnuts?” Deckard mumbles back, pressing the heels of his hands harder against his eyelids.

“With a smile, asshole. You know, how any other normal person would react to a joke,” Hobbs moves his hands to Deckard wrists, pulling at them gently so that Deckard isn’t pressing them so unforgivingly against his eyelids. 

“A joke? So you’re telling me you  _ don’t  _ think I’m capable of climbing you right now?” Deckard lets Hobbs pull his hands back from his eyelids, but keeps his eyes closed. He feels the other man reach behind him, grasping the door handle and manhandling Deckard so that he can open the car door. Deckard leans against Hobbs once again, eyes still closed..

“Nah, sweetheart. I know you’re capable of wrapping those gorgeous legs of yours around me whenever you choose to. But that still doesn’t mean that I don’t want to see you smile.”

Deckard bares his teeth in something that he knows doesn’t even resemble a smile as Hobbs helps him into the car. 

“Better now, love?”

Hobbs makes sure to push his head down gently so that Deckard doesn’t bump it, and Deckard scoots to make space for the other man once he’s in the car, grasping blindly with his eyes still closed.

“Largely,” Hobbs deadpans. 

Deckard hears the car door slam and feels Hobbs reach across him to fasten his seatbelt for him.

“Cheers, mate,” he sighs as the other man retracts to fasten his own seatbelt. They ride in silence for a few minutes until the driver goes over a particularly harsh bump in the road, making the car jerk. Deckard lets out a pained groan and brings his hands up to press his cool fingers to his temples.

“Hey, asshat, slow the fuck down. Can’t you see we’re both hurt?” 

Hobbs addresses both their injuries, but Deckard knows that Hobbs really only said it for him. It’s admittedly sweet, though, so he turns his head slightly and gives Hobbs a tight, but genuine smile.

“There’s that smile, sugar,” Hobbs murmurs. He guides Deckard to lean against him again, offering his shoulder for him to rest his head against, and Deckard takes it gladly. 

“You sure this is a good idea, pet? I  _ did  _ drool all over your other shoulder.”

“Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good,” Hobbs sighs, and Deckard gets in a pinch to the other man’s side, lifting his head accordingly when Hobbs jerks. He rests it back down when Hobbs settles again, and the rest of the noticeably slower drive passes in silence.

Deckard’s almost dozed off when the car comes to a stop, and he lets out a whine when Hobbs starts moving. Hobbs chuckles at him.

“Such a diva,” he gives Deckard the time to straighten and blink his eyes open slowly before opening the car door.

Deckard makes sure to raise two fingers as Hobbs helps him out, supporting him when he staggers from a mix of tiredness, pain, and dizziness.

“Thanks love,” he hums, and Hobbs squeezes where he has his hands on Deckard’s hips. After a moment, Deckard pushes back from Hobbs with an affirmative sound, and Hobbs leads him to the front-door, fitting his keys into the lock. Deckard reaches down slowly for the laces on his boots.

Hobbs stops him halfway. 

“I got it, babe.”

The other man kneels down in front of him and pulls off Deckard’s boots and socks off for him, balling up each sock and pushing it into the corresponding boot.

“Such a gentleman.”

“Only, for you, darlin’” Hobbs kicks off his own boots and toes off his socks, then heads into the house, holding the door open for Deckard with a grin. After Deckard enters the house, Luke hurries back to the car to grab the bag with the change of clothes and painkillers for Deckard, which the smaller man had admittedly forgotten about.

Hobbs heads back to the house and kicks the front door shut behind him, flipping the lock. Deckard takes the bag held out to him with an appreciative hum, and Hobbs nods back before heading deeper into the house.

Hobbs goes straight to the bedroom and collapses on the bed, facedown. Deckard leans against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, grinning when the other man lets out a loud groan into the pillow that he’s got his face buried in. 

“As much as I’m enjoying this, love, I reek. I’m going to hop in the shower,” Deckard fishes out the set of clothes from the plastic bag. They’ve given him a white tank-top undershirt with the sleeves stretched out  _ (a muscle-shirt, he thinks the Americans call it)  _ and a pair of joggers that should cinch nicely about his waist. Easy enough to get into and sleep in, and for that he’s grateful.

He drops the bag, and turns back to the bed to assuage whether Hobbs has passed out yet. He finds that Hobbs has rolled over onto his back and is currently lifting his head up to be able to look at Deckard properly.

“You sure you can handle yourself in there, sunshine? Wouldn’t want you to drown yourself,” the words are teasing but the concern in Hobbs’ eyes is real.

“I can take care of myself, darling, but you’re more than welcome to join me if you doubt that,” Deckard tosses over his shoulder as he heads off to Hobbs’ bathroom. He hears Hobbs laugh behind him and hides a smile. He doesn’t think he’s ever going to bore with this little game they have going. 

It had all kicked off one night, after a particularly taxing mission. They had run into another one of Deckard’s former  _ acquaintances,  _ one from a long time ago. Deckard hadn’t exactly kept in contact with the nag, but she attached herself like a leech to Deckard when they showed up, pawing and simpering at him.

Deckard had exchanged a quick glance with Hobbs, daring him to comment, as he struggled to subtly untangle himself. They’d had to make a hasty retreat from the area after the woman had gotten shrill with her complaint, and Hobbs laughed openly at Deckard as the latter tried to smooth out his suit where the woman had wrinkled it.

“Can’t even keep a woman satisfied? That’s pretty pathetic, Shaw,” Hobbs had leered at him, only to be surprised when Deckard snorted out a laugh.

“More like  _ she  _ couldn’t keep  _ me _ satisfied,” he said, purposefully. “Lacking a certain piece of anatomy…”

Hobbs had raised an eyebrow at him, clearly not understanding, and Deckard had rolled his eyes.

“Dick, you daft idiot. She’s missing a dick.”

Hobbs’ eyes had ratcheted up high on his forehead at the callous statement, but they’d quickly come back down as the man got himself under control. The whole reaction lasted the span of two or three seconds, which was…disappointing to say the least; Deckard had wanted to get a rise. 

“Huh,” is all the other man says.

“What’s wrong, fat boy? Can’t stand the thought of a gay?”

And this time, it’s Hobbs who huffs a laugh.

“I mean, that’d be pretty hypocritical of me.”

And now it’s Deckard’s eyebrows that shoot up in incredulity.  _ Luke Hobbs was into cock? Well color him surprised.  _ He straightens his face out quick enough, humming in acknowledgement.

“I was just curious…” Hobbs trails off, and despite himself, Deckard is intrigued. They’ve stopped walking, having reached their drop-off point. They’re just standing, facing each other, and waiting for the transport to arrive to take them to their respective homes. It’s not like Deckard has anything better to do, so he’ll bite, why not.

“You were just curious…?” he prompts, looking over at Hobbs. 

And right when Hobbs turns to face him with that stupid smirk on his face, Deckard knows he’s about to regret asking.

“I was curious…about what you look like on your knees with your mouth stuffed full.”

And  _ oh  _ it was war. Deckard shifts his stance where he’s leaning up against a lightpost, turning just enough so that his hips are accentuated and his waist appears even more slender from where Hobbs is standing. He drops his chin so that he’s looking up at Hobbs through his lashes and blinks slowly at the other man, knowing the gold light of the streetlamp he’s leaning against will work with his hazel eyes.

“I look good,” he says simply, noting how Hobbs’ eyes dart down to his hips then slowly rake up his body to meet his eyes again.  _ “Especially  _ with my mouth stuffed full. Probably the only way you can get me to be quiet.”

And Hobbs looks him up and down. “You seem like the type to be loud.”

“Only if it’s good, darling.”

And Hobbs smirks again.

“It won’t be anything but with me, princess.”

And so it had started, both of them leering and snarking at one another, trying to get the other to crack and start laughing or feel uncomfortable. Deckard had been pleased to find that Hobbs wasn’t prudish in the slight, often making dirty comments in the worst scenarios that made Deckard have to fight hard to suppress his grin. But while he was good, Deckard wasn’t anywhere near shabby either. 

Deckard exits the bathroom with a quiet sigh; The water pressure had done wonders for his sore muscles, and the clothes he’s dressed in are soft and comfortable. The shirt he’d been given,  _ an undershirt really,  _ leaves his arms bare. It doesn’t quite hug his torso, but it isn’t loose enough that he’s drowning in it either _.  _ He’s tied the sweats at his hips, and they’re just a bit too long, but he cuffs them and they’re good enough. 

His bare feet are quiet on the wooden floors as he pads back to Hobbs bedroom. Hobbs is still flopped on the bed uselessly, but he lifts his head up when the floorboards creak under Deckard’s weight and does a double-take, letting out a low whistle as his eyes travel up and down Deckard’s frame.

“Damn, princess,” he murmurs, pushing himself up off the bed with a wince that doesn’t quite fly past Deckard’s radar. Deckard steps forward and runs gentle fingers over the other man’s stitches, checking if he pulled anything before moving onto his bandaged torso, lifting Hobbs’ shirt up by the hem to get a good look, checking if the bandages have become stained red.

Hobbs chuckles above him.

“Knew you’d be eager, babydoll.”

Deckard helps the other man pull off his shirt since he’s already done half the job anyways. Hobbs stands shirtless in front of him, and Deckard tosses the other man’s shirt into what he assumes is the laundry basket in the corner. He finds his eyes drawn to the other man’s muscled abdomen, and he lets his eyes trail up from there, darting past the bandage around the man’s ribcage, over the man’s well-defined pecs, up those broad shoulders, and finally back up to the other man’s eyes. Hobbs’ lips are twisted upwards and his eyes are teasing. He grasps Deckard’s hips and pulls him closer.

“Like what you see, sweet thing?”

“Always, hotness,” Deckard shoots back without missing a beat.

“I’ve gotta go get clean, baby boy, but feel free to hop in if you get bored out here on your own.”

“Oh I definitely will, love.”

Hobbs chuckles and turns, and  _ damn if Deckard thought that that the other man’s abs were impressive, he’s got nothing on those back muscles. And those shoulders! They’re obscenely wide and heavily muscled. They’d be nice to sit on.  _

And suddenly he’s glad that Hobbs has left he room, because he imagines it’d be rather hard to explain the blush that comes to his face. He shakes away the unbidden thought, and settles himself gingerly in Hobbs’ bed. 

He sits up at first, leaning back against the large wooden headboard, but after his eyes fall shut for the third time, he decides to stretch out and lay down. He settles on his side carefully, facing towards the door, waiting for Hobbs’ return. He lets his head lower back to the pillow slowly, sighing softly. He doesn’t realize that his blinks are becoming slower and slower, or that his eyelids are becoming heavier with each passing moment. 

He’s sound asleep by the time Hobbs shuts off the shower.

… 

“I mean, I guess I should be happy that you’re not drooling all over the pillow,” 

Deckard blinks his eyes open instantly with a groan. It’s dark around him, and he flails abruptly. He feels a big hand on his shoulder, holding him down, and he panics.

_ “Deckard, calm the fuck down. It’s me. It’s Luke,”  _

_ Luke? Luke Hobbs?  _ And then he remembers, and he relaxes abruptly, not fighting the hand that pushes him back into the bed.

“See, was that so hard, princess?” 

Deckard swings a lazy hand and makes contact with what he assumes is the other man’s face, going by the indignated squawk that the contact gets him.

“Gotta ask you a few questions to check for a concussion, then I’ll let you go back to sleep, sound good?”

Deckard hums sleepily in response, shifting under the comforter,  _ which he could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep on top of, huh.  _ The ever-present armchair is up against the bed again, and Hobbs is sitting in it. 

“Alright then,” Hobbs rests his elbows on his knees, propping his head up with one hand. “What’s your name?”

“Deckard Shaw.”

“Where are you right now?”

“In your house. In your bed,” Deckard cracks open his eyes and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making Hobbs smile.

“How many siblings do you have?”

“Two.”

“Names?”

“Hattie and Owen Shaw.”

Hobbs hesitates, rubbing his chin with his fingers. Deckard watches him with half-slitted eyes. 

“Something wrong, dear?”

“Nah… just realized that I don’t actually know that much about you. I read your file, but I doubt you want to be asked about any of the stuff in there,” Hobbs looks at him thoughtfully for a few more moments, and Deckard looks back at him, unsure of what to say in response.

“What’s your favorite color?”

Deckard opens his eyes and looks at Hobbs incredulously, regretting it when it makes his aching head throb. 

“What?” Hobbs asks, looking nonplussed.

Deckard blinks his eyes closed to assuage his headache before opening them slowly to look up at Hobbs through slits. “Nothing.”

“So…favorite color?”

A small smile breaks out on Deckard face, and he curls deeper into the warmth of the comforter before answering.

“Yellow.”

He watches Hobbs’ lips turn up in a small smile of their own.

“Really? You don’t seem like a yellow person.”

“Thought it’d be black, didn’t you?”

Hobbs has the grace to look sheepish. 

“I don’t wear any yellow—mostly because I’d look fucking ridiculous—but it’s my favorite color to look at,” Deckard mumbles sleepily, watching as Hobbs nods thoughtfully.

“Alright, I get that. Ummm…” he looks beyond Deckard, clearly thinking. “Are you religious?”

“Used to be, not anymore,” Deckard answers. Hobbs nods.

“Figured. Hard to be religious in this line of work.”

Deckard remembers young bodies burnt to a crisp and swallows painfully, humming in agreement to Hobbs. He seems to understand and changes the topic quickly.

“Who’s your favorite in the gang? I mean besides me, obviously.”

Deckard snorts, then looks at Hobbs curiously.

“That’s a rather strange question, don’t you think?”  
Hobbs shrugs. “I know the team pretty well, so maybe whichever one you like best will help me understand more about you, and what you like.”

“Trying to get in my pants, darling?”

“Oh, I think I’m already there, sweetheart,” Hobbs says with a grin, squawking when Deckard reaches out with a hand to smack him again.

“So? Which one?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know any of them very well. And we’ve spent more time trying to kill one another than trying to get along, so there’s that, too.”

“Come on, you haven’t found  _ one thing  _ about any of them that you like?”

Deckard gnaws on his bottom lip thoughtfully, thinking it over. He abruptly remembers ice blue eyes and shudders despite himself.

“O’Connor,” he says. 

“Brian?” Hobbs wrinkles his nose. “Really?”

“You don’t like him?”

“I’ve got nothing against him, I just didn’t think that’d be your answer.”

Deckard shrugs underneath the covers. “There’s just something about him that I wouldn’t want to cross.”

Hobbs seems to understand exactly what he’s getting at.

“Yeah, I’ll give you that. I got that vibe even when I was working with him. Everyone did. He’ll smile and laugh and bounce around like a fucking golden retriever, but there’s just something there.”

Deckard hums again. “He’s got Toretto wrapped around his finger.”

Hobbs barks out a laugh. “Glad I’m not the only one who sees it. Toretto might look like the one in charge, but it’s O’Connor who’s really leading him around by the dick.” A short pause, then quieter, “Dom’s crazy about him.”

Deckard remembers his questions from the night he first began coming to Hobbs’ house for help.  _ Well, shit, he couldn’t have asked for a better opening if he tried.  _

“What’s going on with them, anyways? I thought O’Connor was with the sister? Didn’t they have a kid? And weren’t Letty and Toretto together? And what about baby Brian?”

“Didn’t take you for a gossip,” Hobbs chides.

“I’m old. I need  _ something  _ to keep me entertained,” Deckard shrugs again, unbothered.

That gets a laugh out of the other man.

“Fair enough,” Hobbs sits back, getting comfortable. “Yeah, Mia and Brian were together, and so were Dom and Letty. I don’t really know what happened between Brian and Mia, but, ever since Dom got Letty back without her memories, things haven’t exactly been great for them. Dom was caught up in the idea of the woman he used to know, and Letty had become something different altogether, so even after she got her memories back, she wasn’t what Dom was looking for. They didn’t match as well as they used to, and they both realized it, and cut things off.”

Deckard nods, only to pinch his eyes shut with a groan as his headache ratchets up a few notches. He doesn’t hear Hobbs get up or the rustling of plastic a few seconds later, too distracted by the pain, but he does feel the bed dip when Hobbs sits down next to him on the bed. He cracks his eyes open slightly in confusion only to sigh in relief when Hobbs presses two pills into his hand. He must have gotten the painkillers that the medic had given him. 

Deckard takes the two pills, only to pull a face at the bitter taste. He accepts the waterbottle that Hobbs hands him, and downs a few sips.

Hobbs takes it from him when he’s done and puts it on the bedside table with one hand while using the other to help lay Deckard down again, on his side once more. He even goes as far as to pull the covers up around the other man securely before settling back in the armchair with a weary sigh.

After a few moments spent in silence, Deckard manages to pry his eyes open again, looking at Hobbs expectantly. 

“Well, go on then.”

Hobbs huffs before settling back. “Alright so Dom and Letty broke up, and it was clear that there was some tension between him and Brian. Brian wasn’t doing anything with Dom, of course, he would never hurt Mia like that and he’s not the type to cheat, but him and Dom started getting into more arguments and that shit. Kept butting heads.”

“I see that.” 

Hobbs rolls his eyes. “It was all just some dumb alpha male posturing.”

“Oh, and you wouldn’t know  _ anything _ about that would you?” and that’s just  _ dripping  _ with sarcasm

“Excuse me?”

“Oh please. Even the way you fucking walk into a room. You strut in all important-like, arms swinging, tits bouncing—”

“So you’re watching when I walk in?,” 

“Of course  _ that’s  _ what you decided to focus on from that.”

“Well, you were making some  _ detailed _ observations—”

“ _ Detailed?!” _

“—and I just wanted to throw in an observation of my own—” 

“A very farfetched one.”

“—to add to the complexity of the discussion.”

“What discussion? There is no discussion!”

“Your thoughts on my ‘bouncing tits’ say otherwise, dear thing.”

“Oh for the love of the lord, Hobbs, just continue.”

Hobbs laughed outright, then continued as Deckard had bid. “But anyways, while this is happening, Brian and Mia just one day got up and locked themselves in their room, then came out and they were broken up. Just like that. Brian would still be the dad to Jack, but he and Mia didn’t have to be together. I don’t know the real reason they broke up, but I think that Mia knew about what Brian felt for Dom and what Dom felt for him.”

This time, it was Deckard who snorted. “Who  _ couldn’t _ see what they felt for each other. O’Connor gave up his life over and over again to save Toretto’s sorry arse. I’m surprised Toretto himself didn’t see it for so long.”

“Dom tends to have selective vision when it comes to Brian,” Hobbs said with a small grin. “I don’t think he really saw what Brian gave up for him until recently, and it’s not like Brian would ever say anything. He’s not the type of person.”

Deckard nodded. He understood that. 

“Alright, so how did Toretto and O’Connor get together, then?”

Hobbs grinned again. “They got into a huge fight. Like,  _ huge  _ fight. It was over something stupid, too, but they were shouting and pushing and screaming at each other.” Hobbs chuckled, “It’s kinda funny if you think about it. Brian’s always been like ice. Never got mad, never got angry, never showed it even if he did. And it’s this same guy screaming and shoving at Dom. No one’s ever riled up Brian like Dom does.”

“Toretto riles everyone up,” Deckard deadpans. “Even I want to strangle him sometimes.”

Hobbs lets out an long-suffering sigh, “Not as much as I do, sweetheart.”

Deckard laughed at that.

“But anyways,” Hobbs continues with a small smile. “You can guess at how that argument ended. One minute they’re standing toe-to-toe in the middle of the room, angry and shouting at each other over god-knows-what, and then the next, Brian’s up against the wall with a leg hooked around Dom’s waist and Dom’s tongue down his throat.”

“That’s strangely specific,” Deckard says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I would know: I was the one that walked in on them.”

Deckard burst out laughing again as Hobbs shuddered.

“I don’t think they were even gonna come up for air at the rate they were going.”

“What did you do?”

“Cleared my throat, and when they didn’t hear that, I knocked over a toolbox. They broke apart but didn’t move, just stared at each other like they were seeing the other for the first time. Dom looked like he was gonna bolt. But then Brian smiled at him—not the way he usually smiles, but softer…sweeter. And I don’t think that Dom’s thought about bolting ever since.”

“Told you, wrapped around his finger,” Deckard said, pleased despite himself. It’s rare that people find a genuinely good match, and it’s rarer still that two  _ men  _ act on the feelings they have for one another. 

Unbidden, his eyes dart to Hobbs, who he finds is looking back at him. He smiles at the other man softly and gets a smile back.

“They’re good for each other,” he says, voice quieter than he means for it to be. 

Hobbs nods without hesitation, “Really good for each other. Like, shit, Dom goes out and buys flowers for Brian every now and then. They moved in together recently, and every time I go over there, it’s just… it’s so  _ domestic.  _ Sometimes Brian’ll be sitting on the couch and Dom will just walk over and plop down on the floor in front of him and lean back, and Brian will just start rubbing Dom’s head unconsciously. Whenever one of them is cooking or doing the dishes, the other will come up behind them and wrap their arms around their waist. It’s just—shit, it’s just  _ sweet.  _ Makes your teeth feel like falling out sweet.”

“Never took Toretto to be a romantic.”

“I don’t think he ever was. Sometimes I’ll catch Letty looking over, surprised, at the two of them when Dom does something—Mia does it, too; looking over at Brian whenever he smiles at Dom. It’s like they’re both seeing two different people than the ones they dated themselves, and I don’t know, maybe they are,” Hobbs finishes, smiling unconsciously at the thought.

“A love story for the fucking cinema, that’s for sure,” Deckard says with a yawn.

“Oh definitely. But I doubt they’d end up with the right people. Hollywood tends to fuck these things up,” Hobbs agrees.

Deckard hums in agreement, settling deeper into the pillows.

“So O’Connor’s really your favorite, huh?” 

“Nope,” Deckard pulls the comforter so that it’s tucked underneath his chin.

Hobbs brow crinkles in confusion, “But you just said—” 

“You asked me who my favorite was,” Deckard responds, as if that answered everything.

“Yeah and you said—”

“You asked me who my favorite was, other than  _ you,”  _ Deckard says softly, looking up at Hobbs through half-slitted eyes. “Took away my first answer.”

Hobbs’ face splits in a stupid grin that Deckard doesn’t think is completely intentional. 

“Shut it,” Deckard says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“ _ Shut it.”  _

_ “I didn’t say anything!” _

Deckard’s asleep before he can retort back.

… 

“Alright, Shaw, up and at ‘em.”

Deckard groans and buries himself deeper into the blankets. He hears Hobbs’ deep chuckle, and cracks his eyes open to glare at him. The other man looks utterly unbothered, so it’s with a grumble that Deckard pokes his head out of the cocoon he’s made for himself.

“Get on with it then,” he huffs irritably.

“You know, you’re cute when you pout,” Hobbs states unapologetically.

“I’m not—”

“You kinda are, though. Your bottom lip is sticking out and everything. Fucking adorable,” and then he reaches out and runs a thumb over said bottom lip, which  _ alright,  _ was sticking out a little bit. Deckard mimes biting the finger, and Hobbs pulls it away with a laugh.

“Alright then. Ummmm…what’s my name?”

“Luke Hobbs.”

“What’s my daughter’s name?”

“Samantha Hobbs.”

“How old is she?”

“Nine.”

“...What school does she go to?”

“Melrose Elementary School,” Deckard says easily, not thinking twice. He only realizes what he’s said when Hobbs suddenly falls silent, and he blinks open his eyes fully to see the other man’s nostrils flare, clearly pissed.

_ Ah fuck, he’d better start talking. Fast.  _

“Easy, big guy. I’m not stalking your daughter—”

“Then how the fuck do you know—”

“When I came after all of you for Owen, I was getting information, remember? I found out these things then—”

“How? There’s nothing about her in any of my files.”

Deckard swallows.

“...I ran some surveillance—”

“You fucking son of a—”

“Luke, have I ever hurt your daughter?” 

_ “That doesn’t prove—” _

“Hobbs, even when I was fucking pissed and trying to kill all of you, I never once went after your daughter. I wouldn’t—I would  _ never  _ go after a  _ child  _ to settle a debt with you _ ,”  _

And now Deckard’s breathing hard too, angry not at Hobbs but at something else. He pulls himself out of the blankets and sits up.

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?!” Hobbs’ voice is still pissed,

Deckard pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and gnaws on it. After a moment of hesitation, he turns his head to look down at the comforter.

“When Owen, Hattie, and I were younger…our parents didn’t get along,” his voice is quiet, and he knows the subject change is abrupt, so he pauses, waiting for Hobbs to angrily cut him off, but the other man stays silent. So he continues without looking at him, fiddling with the comforter. “Mum would just up and leave every now and then for months at a time… Da would get furious every time she did it, and he’d take it out on us. It was never too bad, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t take it.

“But then one day he got piss-drunk, and angry on top of that, and I wasn’t there. I got home and it was to Hattie unconscious at the bottom of the stairs and Owen screaming from upstairs. I ran up, and I found Da holding Owen by the hair, with a knife to his throat. He’d pressed a phone into Owen’s hands, telling him to call Mum and tell her that if she didn’t come back right this moment, that he’d slit his throat. He told me not to come any closer, and I didn’t. I watched Owen dial the number, and I listened to it ring, all while Da pressed the knife deeper into Owen’s throat. He started bleeding, and I stood there and watched, unable to do anything, as the phone rang and rang.”

Deckard takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes and trying to settle his frayed nerves.

“Mum picked up, and Owen told her what Da had told him to. And Mum… she was silent for a few seconds, then shortly told Owen that it was a terrible prank to pull, and that she was disappointed in him… And then she hung up.”

Deckard hears Hobbs draw in a sharp breath, but he keeps his eyes closed and lets his fingers curl into the comforter.

“Da was furious, and Owen started crying,” Deckard says. “Da threw the phone across the room, and it shattered a vase near me. I started screaming at Da, but I didn’t move, too scared that he would hurt Owen if I moved any closer. Then suddenly Da calmed down, and he looked over at me. He said that…he said that I had always been Mum’s favorite, and that if something happened to me, it would hurt her more than if something happened to Owen. So I agreed with him: I didn’t care what he did to me as long as he let Owen go. But he didn’t let go. He brought the knife back up to Owen’s throat and pressed hard against it. I shouted, telling him that it was me that he should be hurting. And he smiled at me, told me that he knew.”

Deckard pauses again, noticing abruptly that his hands are curled into fists. He loosens them and ploughs on, wanting to get it out before Hobbs can get a word in.

“He told me to pick up one of the pieces of the vase that had broken, and to slit my wrist with it. He told me to slit my wrist or he’d slit O’s throat.”

Hobbs’ eyes are burning with rage, and his hands are curled into angry fists in his lap. But Deckard sees none of this, eyes still closed and head still turned away.

“So I did. I picked up one of the pieces and made a slash across my wrist. He told me to do it again, so I did. Then he told me to do it one more time, so I did.”

If Deckard looked over, he’d see Hobbs shaking, hands trembling as he tried futilely to understand how a father could do that to his own son, to  _ Deckard,  _ who’d gotten emotional at seeing kids he had never even known burnt to death. Who treated every child that came into his care with nothing but respect and kindness. 

Luke hadn’t really been mad at Deckard. He’s always been overprotective of Sam, and to find out that the other man had been able to dig up information on her had frightened him. If Deckard had been able to do it, who else could? What if someone with a grudge against Luke and none of the decency that Deckard possessed came after his little girl? He’d been afraid, and he’d taken it out on Deckard.

He tries to calm his shaking hands and his heavy breathing as he looks at the other man, whose head is still turned away. Luke can see his hands fisting in the comforter, but other than that the brit is utterly emotionless. Blank. How could Deckard be so calm about this? How could the other man discuss being forced to  _ slit his own wrists  _ with the same air as if he was talking about the weather?

“I passed out at one point. Blood loss. Woke up in the hospital. Apparently Hattie had woken up, and she’d come upstairs, heard the commotion. She saw me on the ground, bleeding, passed out, and screamed. It startled Da enough that he let go of Owen and took a step back, and O turned around and kicked him in the balls and knocked him out. Hattie called for an ambulance, telling them that I had slit my wrists, and she and O dragged me downstairs. Hattie wrapped my wrist, and O tried to get me to wake up, but I guess it didn’t work…”

Luke feels like vomiting.  _ Jesus fucking Christ, he can’t imagine himself in the same scenario. Dragging his bleeding older brother who had just slit his wrists down the stairs, trying to get him to wake up, wrapping his mutilated skin as he waited, panicking, for an ambulance to arrive.  _ And Deckard’s telling the story in a voice that makes it sound as if he couldn’t be bothered.

“We lied to the doctors. Never told them what had actually happened. Never told Mum either. I just got my wrists stitched up, and we got a ride back home, called a friend to sign us out. Mum never found out about it, and Da acted like it never happened. Hattie was 9, Owen was 11, and I was 14.”

Deckard suddenly moves, and Luke watches him warily. The other man doesn’t turn his head at all, just offers his left arm to Hobbs, palm-up. Hobbs swallows and glances down, gaze caught immediately on the three jagged scars across the smaller man’s wrist. His own hand hovers above them for a second before he lets himself make contact, feeling the puckered and raised edges of each one.

“I would  _ never  _ use your daughter against you, Luke. Never. I did the research because I wanted to cover my bases, and I dismissed everything I pulled up on her when I found out that she was just a kid. I even… I even messed with what little I found, erased what I could of her in them so that if anyone else came looking they wouldn’t find her. I can show you if you don’t believe me…”

_ Fuck, how could Luke have ever been angry with this man? _

“...There’s no need for that, beautiful…I believe you.”

But Deckard isn’t convinced. 

“...I can leave if you want me to,” painfully quiet, but achingly raw.

“No need,” Hobbs’ voice is shorter than he means for it to be, but he’s still got Deckard’s left wrist in his hand, still has his fingers over those raised scars, and he’s angry in a way he hasn’t been in a long time. Deckard takes the shortness as dismissal, and it’s only when the brit pulls his arm back that Luke is able to drag his gaze to the shorter man’s face. It’s as blank as a white wall, but it’s Deckard’s hands pushing back the comforter that really gets Luke’s attention.

“What do you think you’re—” Luke is already out of the chair, leaning over the bed and making to grab Deckard.

“Luke, it’s alright. I’m fine, I took the pill—my head isn’t even hurting anymore. I can leave, you don’t have to—”

And Luke’s heard enough. He sits down on the bed and forgoes Deckard’s hands, instead grabbing his shoulders, holding him in place and refusing to let go even when the brit tries to brush him off. Deckard looks at him with wide eyes, and Luke wonders what the other man is thinking.

“Luke, stop, I don’t want to impose. I can just grab my shit and—”

“Shut up.  _ Shut up. _ ” 

Deckard’s mouth, surprisingly, snaps closed with a click. He looks at Hobbs, all wide-eyed and worried and  _ what the fuck are you doing.  _ Luke takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down so he doesn’t freak the other man out even more. 

“Deckard, we’re cool. I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay. I asked how I could just take your word about my daughter, and you explained to me why I could. I’m not mad,” the last part is a blatant lie, one that Deckard clearly sees through, going by the disbelieving look the brit shoots him.

“Alright, shit. I’m mad. I’m mad as fuck,” Hobbs admits. “But I’m not mad at you.” 

Deckard looks confused, but nods slowly, carefully, as if he’s unwilling to ask further and risk Hobbs’ anger.  _ Fuck, how could the other man not see that Luke was mad about what had happened to him? About what his asshole of a father had done to him? How could Luke get him to understand? _

He moves one hand up to Deckard face, cradling his cheek softly even when the other man tries to lean away from him, clearly wary. He trails his other hand down, feeling the lean muscle in Deckard’s bare arm tense as he moves down it, but neither pull away. He gets down to the brit’s slim wrist, and grasps it, swallowing when his fingers catch on those horrible scars again. Deckard watches him carefully.

“I’m not mad at you, beautiful…Not at you,” Luke murmurs, running his fingers over the scars, tracing them with the pad of his thumb. 

Deckard looks at him for a few more seconds before seemingly understanding what Hobbs is getting at, and his face morphs with surprise. 

_ “Oh.”  _

Luke’s lips twitch at the eloquence, but he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to drop his gaze down to what his fingers are so distracted by. He stares, enraptured, at the three scars, not noticing the brit’s calculating gaze on him.

“...He’s dead,” Deckard voice is soft, and unbearably gentle. It reminds Luke of the way that the other man had spoken to Fayola and the other children, and he finds that he’s oddly soothed by the tone. “He’s been dead for a long time, darling.”

Luke just shakes his head, unable to formulate a response, caught up in his own turbulent emotions. Deckard seems to understand and lets him have a moment, looking off to the side to give him a semblance of privacy. After a few moments, Luke lets out a shaky sigh and pulls back from Deckard, pushing off the bed and standing up as he does so, only to stumble and groan low when the movement aggravates his newly stitched up injuries. 

Of course, the wince doesn’t escape the brit’s notice, the groan even less so, and Deckard’s hazel eyes dart up to him. Luke avoids the gaze and tries to settle back into the chair, only to be stopped by the other man suddenly grabbing his wrist. Unexpectedly, Deckard smirks at him.

“You know, handsome. I’m starting to believe you’re all bark and no bite when it comes to all the promises you’ve been making me. You say you’ll give me a grand time, but every time I find myself in your bed you don’t take advantage of it,” the brit’s voice has dropped low, and he’s pouting at Luke, a stark difference from the blankness from before. Luke raises an eyebrow, unsure of what Deckard’s getting at. 

“Well, babydoll. Each time you come here you’re beaten up and broken. How am I supposed to rock your world if you’re already passed out by the time I get you in my bed?” 

Deckard smiles seductively, carefully maneuvering himself so that he’s lying down on his side again. “Well, here I am. In your bed. Awake and capable. And you’re just standing there instead of getting comfortable next to me.”

Luke’s other eyebrow shoots up to join the first one.  _ Is the brit asking him to get in bed with him? _

“Eager little thing aren’t you? Trying to sleep with me one way or another?”

“Well, it’s not like that chair is going to do you any favors. I’d rather have you pressed up against me under these covers.”

“That so, princess?”

“It is, darling.”

“Then who am I to disagree with you?” Because, despite how he may be acting, Luke is  _ tired.  _ His body aches in all the wrong places and his own painkillers are making his head woozy.  _ Whatever, it’s just sleeping in the same bed; they’ve done far worse.  _ But somehow, Luke knows this is about to change something. 

“I’m not up for anything too active—just hit my head after all, but I do still want to have you against me,” Deckard says with a fake coyness that makes Luke want to grin. 

Luke  _ could  _ just walk around the bed and hop in on the other side, but where’s the fun in that? He instead throws a leg over Deckard on the bed, hefting himself up with his hands at the same time. He rubs against Deckard as he goes, pressing close before clearing the other man, curling up behind him, and wrapping a thick arm around him. 

He’s careful to keep distance between himself and the back of Deckard’s head, not wanting to aggravate the injury. Deckard shuffles backward, allowing Luke underneath the covers and pressing close to his warm heat. He lets out a sigh as Luke’s arm goes around his waist, pulling him closer until Deckard’s ass is pressed up against Hobbs’ hips. 

Deckard shifts his hips back and forth slightly, trying to tease out a reaction out of Hobbs. Luke tightens the arm around Deckard’s waist and leans close to whisper in his ear.

“Don’t tease, beautiful. I won’t be able to control myself.”

Deckard sighs exaggeratedly, making Hobbs chuckle. 

“Next time, darling. I’ll take you as hard as you want me to,” Hobbs promises with a leer.

“Promise?” Deckard simpers back, pressing closer to Luke, who lets out a laugh.

“Of course, princess. Whatever you want.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

Luke’s eyes drift shut

… 

It’s late in the morning when Luke blinks his eyes back open, and Deckard is still in his arms.  _ Huh, he thought the brit would’ve taken off in the night.  _ But no, here he is, sleeping deeply, curled up next to Luke. 

Luke blinks sleepily a few times, trying to get a sense of his surroundings. Looking down at Deckard, he realizes that the brit must have turned at one point in the night because he’s facing Luke now, eyes closed and face relaxed in sleep. Luke realizes belatedly that his arms are still wrapped around the smaller man’s waist, and that Deckard is tucked into the cradle of his body.  _ Fuck, should he withdraw? But what if he wakes the brit up? But what if Deckard wakes up and reacts badly? _

But as his senses slowly become sharper with consciousness, Luke realizes that the brit has his hands tangled in the material of his loose t-shirt. The smaller man’s hands are curled into loose fists, and he’s clutching at Luke’s chest in his sleep. For some reason, Luke finds that it’s incredibly endearing.

Deckard curls in on himself in his sleep, and his breathing is light and almost silent.  _ Not a snorer, which is nice, _ Luke has to admit.  _ He abhors people who snore loudly. _ The other man’s chin is tucked to his chest in a defensive position. It doesn’t look comfortable, and Luke wonders if the other man gets cricks in his neck because of it. He would prod at the muscles of the brit’s neck, but again, he doesn’t want to wake him up. So he’ll wait. 

He instead tries to distract himself by trying to figure out where Deckard’s legs are. Seeing how curled up the smaller man is, he wouldn’t be surprised to find them drawn up. To his surprise, he realizes belatedly that, instead, Deckard’s legs are tangled with his own. Deckard’s got one leg in between his, and Luke’s leg is thrown haphazardly over the other man’s thigh.  _ Well, fuck, that’s embarassing. _ But Luke can’t find it within himself to care: He’s too comfortable.

So he relaxes back into his pillow, resigning himself to staying put until Deckard wakes up. His mind wanders back to the previous night, to Deckard’s low voice and quiet vulnerability. He feels the phantom press of the raised skin of those horrid scars under the pads of his fingers, sees them in his mind’s eye. He just manages to suppress a shudder, ever conscious of Deckard’s body against him. He focuses on the rise and fall of Deckard’s calm breathing against his body, trying to mimic it and calm himself down, but it doesn’t work.

Deckard shifts against him with a quiet grumble , and Luke accordingly tries to relax his body so that he doesn’t disturb the other man. The brit remains tense for another moment or two, then snuffles and shifts closer to Luke’s warmth before settling again, his breathing still light and even. Luke couldn’t have suppressed the small smile that comes to his face at the display if he tried, which he honestly didn’t.  _ Mercenary extraordinaire, Deckard Shaw—an avid cuddler. Who would’ve thought? Not him, for sure.  _

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you that gloating is rude, pet?” Deckard sounds decidedly smug.

“I’ve always been a slow learner, babe,” Luke doesn’t let his surprise stop him from responding.

“As long as you know it.”

Luke scoffs, loosening his hold around the other man’s waist when he shifts. Deckard sits up slowly, folding his legs underneath him, eyes sleepy and body loose and sluggish. Luke props his head up with a hand and watches him unabashedly—sleepy is a good look on the other man. Those hazel eyes are half-lidded, giving Shaw a sleepy but undoubtedly sexy air. The brit stretches languidly, arching his back like a cat. The loose muscle shirt he’s wearing doesn’t do much to cover his body, the stretched out armholes exposing his sides. Deckard pays it no mind, tipping his head back and drawing his shoulders up. 

Then he promptly collapses back on top of Luke, forcing Luke to roll onto his back so that Deckard can splay out on top of him. Luke lets out a huff of air at the impact, but obligingly wraps an arm around Deckard’s waist again when the man nudges him. 

“Still sleepy, princess?”

“Mmmmm…warm,” Deckard answers, pillowing his head on Luke’s chest.

“I’ve gotta say, I never took you for a cuddler.”

“Takes one to know one,” Deckard answers flippantly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Deckard props himself up on top of Luke’s chest so that he can look down at his face.

“You  _ did  _ spoon me last night. Or did you just conveniently forget that part?”

“Didn’t realize you were enjoying yourself so much, sweet-cheeks.”

Deckard smiles sultrily at him before flopping back onto Luke’s chest.

“How could I not when you’ve got this gorgeous body of yours pressed up tight against me?”

Luke flexes his arm where it’s thrown around Deckard’s waist, making sure that the brit can feel the play of muscles against the small of his back. The brit instantly lets out an exaggerated full-body shudder, accompanied by a breathy whimper.

“Just like that, love, you always know what I want.”

“Whatever my princess wants, my princess gets,” Luke snarks at the other man.

Deckard nuzzles into his chest.

“That’s how I like it.”

They lay together in silence for a few minutes, Deckard absently tracing patterns on Luke’s skin with his cool fingers. Luke moves his own hand up to poke at the muscles in the other man’s neck, and upon finding them as tense as he predicted, he begins to soothe them out. Deckard doesn’t say anything, but he hisses occasionally when Luke presses too hard, to which Luke responds with an apologetic murmur.

It’s strangely nice. The atmosphere just feels…domestic.  _ Like with Brian and Dom. _ Luke hastily derails that thought before it has the chance to go any further. 

Deckard shifts on top of him, letting out a low groan before pushing himself up into a sitting position. 

“As much as I want to stay, sweetheart, I think we both know that it’s time for me to get going.”

Luke nods absently, watching as Deckard wrestles with the comforter for a few moments before finally untangling himself. The smaller man reaches behind himself, hand hovering over the bandage on the back of his head. Luke props himself up and moves closer to the other man, prodding at the bandage carefully himself. He gently pulls it loose, eyeing the gash, which is looking better.

“How’s your headache, sweet thing?” he murmurs to Deckard.

“Pretty much gone, dearest.”

Hobbs hums in response replacing the bandage and letting the other man pull away and get to his feet while he reclines on the bed. 

“The pistol you gave me is on the table near the front door. Where I usually put your stuff when this happens.”

“Thanks, love. Your daughter still isn’t back?”

“Nah, she’s staying over at her mom’s. She’ll be back in the evening. You sure you’re not stalking her?”

“Easy, papa bear. Just curious. Wanted to make sure she was alright,” Deckard reassures him.

“I know, I believe you,” Luke’s eyes dart down to the other man’s wrist and there’s a tense silence that lingers for a few moments. “...I believe you.”

Deckard’s eyes follow Luke’s own, and he absently runs the fingers of his right hand over his left wrist, feeling the puffy skin of the scars. He clears his throat awkwardly, letting his right hand drop back to his side.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around, darling. Nobody should have sent someone by now.”

Luke nods slowly, eyeing the brit even as he avoids his gaze.

“Take care, beautiful,” he says, just to see the way that Deckard’s cheeks color a faint red with embarrassment. It’s ridiculously endearing, the way that the other man acts so suave and confident only to blush like a schoolgirl with her first crush at a genuine compliment. 

And it  _ is _ genuine. Deckard’s one of the most  _ beautiful _ people that Luke’s ever met, and he’s glad that he decided to inform the other man of it, seeing the bashful reaction it gets him. It had also stung a little bit though, seeing the other man’s genuine surprise and disbelief when he had first used it, but he supposes that’s to be expected with their history. He needs to find other ways to make the brit blush, because it’s a fucking  _ gorgeous _ look on him. But then again, fucking everything is.

“You know, I haven’t forgotten what you said out there,” he calls after Deckard, and the other man hesitates in the doorway of the bedroom, clearly intrigued.

“Oh? And what did I say?”

“That you cared about me.”  
Deckard’s quiet for a moment, still facing away, before speaking. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Loud and clear,” Hobbs affirms. He’s not taunting the other man, he just wants to see how Deckard responds. If the other man will deny it.

“I recall you making me a promise,” Deckard says suddenly, still facing away from him, one hand on the doorframe.

“Oh?”

“You said you would stay safe, stay alive, so you could come out on the other side and get me to say it again.”

“And I did.”

“Mmmm, not really. You didn’t get me to say it again.”

“Yeah I did, a few seconds ago you said—”

“All I did was admit that I said it the first time, I never said it again.”

Luke thinks over it for a moment, then nods grudgingly. “Alright, I guess you’re right. What’s your point?”

“Technically, your promise is unfinished, so it still stands,” Deckard turns his head to the side slightly, so Luke can finally get a glimpse of his face. 

“Oh?”

“Mhm. You’ll just have to stay alive if you want me to say it again.”

Luke is smiling openly now.  _ Deckard hadn’t denied anything. _ He hadn’t said anything outright, either, but he hadn’t denied anything. And he even offered an ultimatum. One that Luke’s more than willing to agree to. So all he has to do is stay alive? Easy—he’s been doing it this long, what’s a little longer?

“Oh, I will, beautiful. You’re not getting out of this that easy.”

Deckard’s lips split in a smile, and paired with his rosy cheeks and the sunlight glinting off his hazel eyes, he looks fucking  _ stunning. _ Luke would say something, but it’s as if any capability of  _ words _ has completely abandoned him.

“I didn’t think I would, love,” Deckard says softly. And there’s something affectionate in his voice, too. Something fond. And honestly it says everything that Deckard isn’t voicing himself.

Deckard turns back forward and continues down the hallway, calling back as he goes,

“Until next time, darling.”

Luke finally rediscovers the English language.

“Looking forward to it, beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Good? Bad? Somewhere in between? Please let me know in the comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things between them are shifting, slipping into place and creating something new that neither of them could have predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my update time wasn't THAT bad this time around, right? I mean, I got it out within the same month as the last chapter? So that kind of makes it alright? Maybe? Hopefully?
> 
> Well either way, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! It's a bit shorter than the last few ones, but no less important. I have to say I really enjoyed writing this one, I hope you all get as much satisfaction reading it!

_Fucking_ finally. The day was _fucking_ over and Luke could go to _fucking_ sleep. He had put Sam down for bed about an hour ago, finished up some paperwork that had been taunting him from his work table, and now his head was aching, his eyes were stinging, and his body was absolutely over it. So it was with a spring to his step that Luke headed towards his bedroom, his bare feet plodding down the cool wooden flooring.

He’s practically skipping by the time he gets into his bedroom, and he turns the light on and ploughs through the doorway, humming happily under his breath. He makes a beeline for the dresser, grabbing a pair of sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt to change into. 

“...Well you’re in a good mood.”

“ _ Jesus  _ **_fucking_ ** _ Christ,” _ Luke absolutely  _ does not  _ shriek as he spins on his heel to face Deckard, who’s seated on the edge of his bed, cackling with laughter. “Don’t fucking  _ do  _ that, fuck!” 

But Luke can’t really bring himself to be too upset, considering that Deckard’s laughing so hard he can’t even formulate a response. The brit must be one of those people whose laugh goes silent when they’re laughing too hard because it looks to Luke like Deckard’s having some sort of seizure with the way his body’s shaking.  _ It’s strangely endearing _ , he admits, the way Deckard throws his head back, his laughs starting out like a mix between a giggle and a cackle only to taper out into silence punctuated by gasps and wheezes for breath.

“Are you done, princess?” he grumps halfheartedly, too amused to actually be upset over the fact that Deckard’s literally laughing his ass off at his expense.

Deckard turns to look at him, only to clench his eyes shut and burst into another helpless fit of giggles at the sight of him, choosing instead to collapse backwards onto Hobbs’ bed and throw a hand over his eyes as he fights to get control of himself. His laughter’s finally gained sound again, and, as funny as it is to see Deckard’s body rock with silent gales, it’s even better to actually hear the sound of the other man’s laughs: He doesn’t laugh so much as he  _ cackles. _ It’s unreserved, uncaring, and honestly kind of scary— _ kind of like the Halloween cartoons that Sam watches when the season comes around. _ The side of Luke’s mouth twitches at the comparison.

He ruefully rounds the bed to come to stand in front of Deckard, lifting the other man’s hand from where it’s clenched to his tensing stomach. The brit’s always hurt in some sort of way when he comes here, so Luke might as well look for it and hold some of his dignity. 

His dignity pointedly ignores the man on his bed that’s currently laughing so hard he’s almost pissing himself.

Upon lifting Deckard’s hand from his stomach, he finds the material of the man’s sweater stained through with blood. He decidedly tugs the sweater over Deckard’s head, rolling his eyes and throwing the bunched up material at Deckard’s face when it comes off completely. The brit just tosses it off the bed, still snickering.

“You know you should be more polite to the only man who’s willing to stitch your sorry ass up.”

“Are you sure it was a man that that screamed a few minutes ago?”

Luke presses harder than he needs to on the gash that he finds on Deckard’s pale skin.

_ “Fucker,” _ Deckard wheezes.

Grinning, Luke heads around the bed to grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom. 

“You know, I should probably start keeping this closer to the bed, what with how often you come here,” he muses, heading back to Deckard, who lifts his head to glance at him.

“That and the lube, darling,” the brit says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Luke slaps a hand to his head dramatically, “God, the most important part! How could I forget?”

“Probably thought that you could plow right on in like you do with everything else?” Deckard suggests, cackling again when Luke waps Deckard’s head this time.

“Least you know that I’m not messing around on ya.”

“Hot, strong,  _ and _ faithful? It can’t be real.”

“All real, darling. You can touch me if you really need the assurance though.”

Deckard reaches out, grasping the back of Luke’s thigh lazily and squeezing before dropping his hand. Luke’s bent over him, thighs pressed up against the bed so he can get close enough to stitch up the man properly, so Deckard takes the liberty of reaching out and grasping the back of Luke’s thigh lazily, giving it a squeeze before raising his hand to rest against Luke’s ass.

Luke raises an eyebrow without even looking up from his dutiful stitching. “Not the kind of touching I was referring to, but I’m not complaining.”

Deckard grins. “I didn’t think you’d be.”

Luke gestures with his chin down at the gash that he’s currently stitching up, “Is this it? You’re usually more beat up when you come over.”

“Eh, figured I’d take it easy on you today. God knows I make your life harder as it is, anyways,” Deckard waves a hand noncommittally. 

“Bullshit, babe. As if I’d ever complain about having your fine ass in my bed.”

“Is that the only place you’d like to have my  _ fine arse, _ darling?”

Luke grins. “Oh, I’d like to have your fine ass over every flat surface in this house, sweet-cheeks.”

Deckard sighs emphatically. “Promises, promises.”

“One day, you’ll come here whole and healthy. That’ll be the day that I follow through, sweetheart.”

“Oh? Is that so, love?”

“Try it and find out,” Luke leers, making Deckard snicker again.

“Maybe I will, hotness,” the brit raises the hand on his ass and runs it up Luke’s chest, over his collarbone, around his shoulder, and down to rest it on his bicep, squeezing gently. Luke flexes, making the muscle bulge in Deckard’s grip. “Maybe I will.”

“That’s also going to be the day that I get you to say that you care about me again,” Luke adds, predicting Deckard’s scoff before it even happens.

“Debatable.”

“Nah, princess. I’ll get you to say it when you’re strung out and begging on my cock, sheets clenched in your fists, face pressed into the comforter, legs twitching as they struggle to hold you up.”

“I prefer to be on my back, actually,” Deckard interrupts, looking uninterested.

Luke raises an eyebrow in response. 

Deckard shrugs. “I like seeing faces.”

“Alright then. On your back. With those beautiful, long legs of yours wrapped around my waist. Maybe one up on my shoulder—you’re pretty flexible—”

“That I am.”

“—still strung out and begging, that part won’t change. Looking up at me all desperate, pleading with me to let you come. I’ll get your arms up above your head, pin them down so you can’t use them—”

“Kinky.”

“—get you to look at me with those pretty eyes of yours. Won’t be easy, considering they’ll be fluttering shut with each thrust of my cock into your  _ fine ass.” _

“You think my eyes are pretty?” Deckard doesn’t miss a beat, batting said pretty eyes up at him.

“The prettiest,” Luke deadpans, tying off the stitches, and moving back slightly to get a good look at them. He runs careful fingers over them and, deeming them satisfactory, backs up to put the first aid kit in the bathroom. He heads to the closet and grabs a t-shirt—throwing it at Deckard again. The brit catches it with a dirty look at Hobbs, pulling it on carefully. Luke stoops and picks up the clothes that he’d dropped earlier. 

Deckard props himself up on his elbows as Luke strips his shirt off. The brit meets his gaze easily and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes dart down from Luke’s face to instead peruse his body. Usually, Luke would put on the sleep shirt and then pull off his jeans, just to be practical, but he’s got a captivated audience, so he pops the button on his jeans and slowly pulls the zipper down. 

Deckard’s eyes follow the zipper’s descent. His now swollen bottom lip slips from between his teeth, and Luke’s own eyes find themselves latched to it. It’s plump and tender from Deckard’s gnawing on it, and shiny and red.  _ Luke wonders what it would be like to pull it between his own teeth. _

He’s so surprised by the sudden thought that he lets his jeans drop unceremoniously to his ankles.  _ Fuck, he’d meant to lower them slowly, to tease the other man. _ Deckard doesn’t seem to mind though, seeing as how his hazel eyes are wandering the expanse of Luke’s now naked legs unashamedly. 

“Knew you’d be the type to wax everywhere,” he quips, nodding at Luke’s hairless legs. His eyes dart then linger just a moment too long on his crotch, which, while not hard, still tents the cloth of his boxers pretty obviously. The brit draws that tantalizing bottom lip back between his teeth.

“Knew you’d be the type to appreciate it,” Luke responds. “And you’re one to talk. Your legs don’t have a lot of hair on them either.”

Deckard raises an eyebrows. “You’ve seen my legs,” he says, shrugging as if that explains everything.

Luke strains to remember the night that he’d pulled the other man’s pants off and dragged those beautiful pale legs to sit on his shoulders, then wrap around his waist. He remembers his fingers running over soft, but patchy skin, uneven in texture and scarred in a strange manner. They were soft, and muscled firmly, but the skin wasn’t anywhere near smooth.

“Burns,” he suddenly realizes out loud. Deckard hums.

“Knew you had a brain knocking around somewhere in that hollow head of yours.”

And Luke can’t help his curiosity. He teases, playfully, “I don’t remember anything in your file about arson.”

He wants to take the words back the instant they leave his stupid, blabbering mouth, if only for the way that Deckard’s face shutters, the playful expression dropping. It happens in the span of a second, and suddenly it isn’t Deckard, the tentative friend who occasionally (frequently) flirts unashamedly with him sitting on his bed, but rather Deckard, the man who had grown up on beatings and blood and tasted bullets and betrayal before ever leaving the comfort of his own home.

“It was before I joined up.”

_ His dad, _ Luke reads instantly, and he wants to smack himself in the face for his  _ stupid, big mouth. _ He opens said stupid, big mouth to say something, but flounders once he’s there, the words falling short and darting back into the safety of his mind rather than escaping into the tense air between them. Deckard’s not even looking at him anymore. 

Suddenly  _ supremely _ conscious of the fact that he’s standing—after having said something  _ astoundingly _ stupid—in the middle of the room in nothing but his boxers, Luke steps out of his jeans hurriedly and tosses on his sweats and sleep shirt without any more preamble, abandoning any semblance of tease that he’d adapted earlier. He chances glances at Deckard every few seconds, wanting to say something to get that horrid look out of the other man’s eyes that always comes up whenever his dad is discussed. 

He’s glad for the split second reprieve he gets from Deckard’s empty face when he pulls his shirt over his head and the cloth obscures his vision. He tugs it into place awkwardly, spending more time doing so than he needs to, still not looking at Deckard, just to avoid seeing the look on the other man’s face. 

It does things to him, seeing that blankness, and he hadn’t even realized how much it unnerved him until after he’d had the brit’s smile to compare it to. 

_ “With all due respect captain, when this whole thing is over, we’re gonna find a location and I’m gonna knock your teeth so far down your throat you’re gonna stick a toothbrush right up your ass to brush ‘em.” _

It was only after he’d seen the man laugh unreservedly that he’d become hyper-aware of the previous blankness that had been there, and it was only after he had become aware that he started to become curious. He’d figured pretty early on that Shaw’s parental relations aren’t exactly the best, but not even in his wildest imagination could he have pictured anything like  _ this. _ It makes him angry beyond relief, makes him want to punch something so hard he breaks his fingers. 

He stoops down to pick up the clothes he’d dropped, taking his time and crossing the room to drop them into the laundry basket rather than throwing them across the room.

“What’s wrong, love? I thought you were giving me a show?” Deckard’s voice is off, his eyes just a touch too unreadable. And Luke  _ hates it. _ He hates that a man who probably died years ago and was so worthless that he found power in beating his own flesh-and-blood kids  _ still _ has such an effect on Deckard. Maybe that’s what prompts his mouth to finally open,

“You’re beautiful,” his voice comes out softer than he means it to, like he’s talking to Sam rather than Deckard. 

The brit raises an eyebrow, “I’m starting to think you don’t know what that word means.”

Luke smiles to himself, moving back towards the bed, “Beautiful. Adjective. Means pleasing to the eyes. Synonyms include attractive, pretty, handsome, gorgeous, stunning.”

Deckard rolls his eyes. “Reckon it’s your eyes that need checking then.”

Luke sits on the edge of the bed. “Monthly checkups—perks of the job. Still 20/20.” 

Deckard shuffles backwards, righting himself so he’s sitting up, propped up against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. “You didn’t get a good look, then.”

Luke snorts. “Hate to break it to you babe, but I think we crossed that line weeks ago.”

“Has to be brain damage then—or maybe an absence of a brain at all.”

“I’m not the brightest, but I know I’ve got the mental capacity for this.” 

Deckard finally shrugs, “Agree to disagree, Hobbs.”

Luke’s always loved a challenge. He grasps Deckard’s hips firmly. “Fuck that.”

“And what exactly do you think you’re doing, twinkle-toes?”

He meets Deckard’s eyes like he’s throwing down a gauntlet, knowing that it’s the only way to go about this in which the brit doesn’t throw him off like an angry buck would its rider. So he dares Deckard to back away when his right hand drifts to the button on the brit’s cargo pants—dares him to tap out when he pops it and drags the zipper down slowly, careful not to let anything catch as he lowers it, navigating only by touch. 

As predicted, Deckard’s eyes narrow, seeing the challenge for what it is. Deckard hovers for a moment, knowing that calling it quits will leave him with his pants on, but will be counted as a win for Hobbs, but also knowing that letting Luke continue to bare his legs will result in the other man winning.  _ Damn, _ the wookie was smarter than Deckard gave him credit for—this is a lose-lose situation for him, so he might as well choose the option where his dignity at least remains intact; There’s not  _ ever _ going to come a day where he backs down from a challenge that Hobbs sets out.

So he lifts his chin and his hips, giving Luke the space to maneuver and slip the tight cargo pants over the curve of his arse (since he’s sitting down) so that the other man can get the pants off of him. 

Luke smirks, ignoring the flare of something in Deckard’s eyes that he just  _ knows _ symbolizes danger, considering the last time he’d seen it directed at him was the day he’d gotten thrown out of a four-story window (but if Deckard asks, he  _ jumped, thank you very much). _ And god,  _ this _ is the Deckard that he likes seeing. The one with fire in his eyes and confidence in the set of his chin, the one who threw himself at every challenge with a grin like the devil himself. He doesn’t think there’s ever gonna be a day that goes by in which he doesn’t think Deckard Shaw is beautiful, but holy  _ fuck _ right now, with that expression on his face, the brit is  _ searing  _ hot _. _

_ This _ is what Luke likes seeing.  _ This  _ is the fire that he sees every time Deckard lays out on his back beneath him, hazel eyes half-lidded, swollen bottom lip between his teeth, pale legs wrapped around him, meeting Hobbs step-for step, word-for-word in every way. He likes it when Deckard  _ fights back. _ Likes when he’s not weighed down by his past or worried about the present, but rather just focused on  _ winning, _ of coming out on top.

So he tugs Deckard’s pants down over his ass then slides them slowly down his lean legs, uncovering more and more skin as he goes. Each new scar or disfiguration that’s exposed only makes Deckard’s gaze burn brighter, the jut of his chin rise higher, and  _ hot damn, _ it’s fucking hot. Luke tosses the pants behind him without looking, choosing instead to let his eyes roam obviously over the planes of Deckard’s thick, muscled thighs, his bulging calves. They’re riddled with scars, but he meant what he’d said earlier—they don’t bother him. He’s never been someone naive enough to care about superficiality.

So he drags his fingers over them, and, feeling Deckard’s eyes on his face, assesses each disfiguration for a few seconds. His hands skitter up the insides of the brit’s thighs, remembering their sensitivity from last time; He’s rewarded by the man’s knees coming up slightly and the pale skin twitching as his fingers tickle by. Luke palms the brit’s hipbones before dragging his hands down the outsides of the his thighs, where the burns are the worst. 

He doesn’t know what Deckard’s bastard of a father must have done to inflict them, but he doesn’t care, not right now. He’ll simmer later, when Deckard’s either asleep or gone and Luke has a moment to himself. Now he admires them openly, not making an effort to alter his expression because he knows he doesn’t need to. He knows there’s nothing but admiration, appreciation, affection in his gaze because that’s all he’s feeling right now. There’s no need to lie when he has nothing to hide.

“Didn’t realize you had a thing for scars,” Deckard’s voice is calculating, and even half-naked with Hobbs’ large figure towering over him, he spreads his legs and holds himself like he’s in charge. He eyes Luke’s hands with something like indifference, as if he doesn’t care where they travel and what they find on his skin when Luke knows that Deckard probably hates these marks and what they represent. 

“I don’t; But people do tell me I have an eye for art, though.”

And this time, Deckard’s cheeks color again, that delightful flush creeping into his high cheekbones and spreading to the tips of his ears even as he rolls his eyes. Luke wants to know the path that the blush takes when Deckard’s really flustered; he wants to trace its trajectory down the other man’s body. He wonders if the pale skin of Deckard’s chest colors red, too, wonders if the soft (but not smooth) skin of his thighs bruises easily, if color will rise to the surface if Luke grips too hard.

_ Fuck, he shouldn’t be going down this road—this is all just a game. He’s  _ **_not_ ** _ curious. He  _ **_doesn’t_ ** _ want to find out more. He  _ **_doesn’t_ ** _ want to press his lips to Deckard’s skin to see if that flush is really as warm as it looks, to trace the scars on the other man’s body with his tongue and teeth, to drop his head and take Deckard’s mouth with his own, tasting him, touching him, holding him, feeling him— _

…Well, this is a definite turn in events. 

Deckard seems to have not noticed his lapse in concentration, but the flush on his face has long since died down, so some time has clearly passed. Had Deckard said something else that Luke had missed? Ah, fuck…

Deckard hadn’t said anything of the sort. In fact, he’d been having some thoughts of his own. He’s always appreciated Luke’s body—the sheer  _ bigness _ of him, his muscles, his features, his smile, his laugh, his voice. He’s always been a bit of a slut when it comes to hunks, and it’s no exception with Luke. He wonders what it’d be like to be held down by the other man, wonders if he would hold him with gentleness or firmness, or maybe both. He wonders what it’d feel like to trace that huge tattoo on the other man’s chest with his tongue. He wonders what it’d feel like to be on his knees, in front of the other man, if Hobbs would appreciate it.

He shouldn’t be thinking these things, but now that he’s started he can’t stop.  _ He wonders if Hobbs is as talented in using his mouth to kiss as he is in talking shit. He wonders what it would feels like to have Luke’s tongue against his own, to be held against that great body. Would Luke look at him with the same admiration that he’s got in his eyes now? Would he—  _

“...Shove off, Hobbs,” he blurts, not knowing how much time has passed. Hobbs starts in front of him, like he’s been in thought, too, and his warm, brown eyes dart to meet Deckard’s own. Alright, it looks like Deckard hadn’t missed anything then—small mercies; He can practically see the stupid smirk that’ll cross the other man’s face if he knew the exact direction that his mind had been wandering. 

“Come on, princess, don’t be like that. You know you want me,” Hobbs’ response comes a few seconds too late, but Deckard jumps on the distraction readily; He wraps his naked legs around Luke’s thick waist. The sleep shirt that the other man’s wearing isn’t nearly as tight as all the other shirts that he usually wears, but it’s thin enough that Deckard can still feel hard ridges of muscle and warmth seeping into his skin.  _ Fuck, the other man has such a gorgous body. _

He uses his legs and the grip of a hand to flip Luke over suddenly, rolling the other man so that Deckard’s perched on top of him, settled on his hipbones. He realizes a second too late that this probably isn’t the best position to be in, considering that fact that he’s trying to  _ not  _ make it obvious that he’s drooling for the other man. But, fuck it, he’s here now. He braces his hands on Luke’s abdomen, unashamedly feeling up the other man’s body as he drags his hands upwards slowly. He settles with his hands on Hobbs’ pecs; The sleep shirt, thin as it is, does nothing to hide the feeling of Luke’s tight nipples against his palms, and he decides to rub his hands up and down them, giving the other man some friction. 

_ For the game, _ he thinks absently to himself as he catches one nipple between his fingers over the sleepshirt and fondles it,  _ he has to win the game. _ Hobbs’ nostrils flare at the contact, and he grins up at Deckard, “Knew you’d see things my way.”

Deckard wiggles his hips, rubbing his arse against Luke’s crotch. The other man’s hands fly to grasp his hips again as the grin drops off his face. A low, not-quite muffled groan makes Deckard shiver— _ for the game, of course. _ Luke’s hands travel down from his hips to his bare thighs, squeezing and rubbing appreciatively.

“I gotta tell you, babydoll. Teasing me isn’t the best idea,” Hobbs mutters to him, pressing his own hips up slightly, pressing his crotch harder against Deckard’s arse for some friction. Deckard gives it to him, baring down and rolling so that he’s grinding against the other man. 

“You’re the one who’s been teasing,” Deckard leans down, pressing his front against Hobbs so that they’re pressed together from crotch to chest and thus changing the angle of their hips so that it’s not Deckard’s arse that Luke is rubbing against, but rather his crotch, covered only by the thin layer of cotton of his boxers. He presses forward, using his legs to help him roll his hips against Luke’s. “Promising to fuck me nice and good, open me up real nice, only to never follow through.”

Luke’s hands suddenly grasp his arse tightly, squeezing the cotton-clad cheeks firmly and using the grip to control Deckard’s rolls against him. “Didn’t realize it would make you so horny,” he breathes, digging his fingers into the firm muscle.  _ Damn, the brit’s ass almost doesn’t fit in his hands—and he’s got pretty big hands. _

Deckard gasps when Luke lifts a hand only to bring it back down in a sharp slap against his arse, making the brit’s hips jerk forward, against Hobbs’ own hips, rubbing their crotches together.  _ It’s for the game, it’s all for the game. _ So he arches his back, tilting his pelvis down into Hobbs’ and his arse back at the same time, increasing the contact of their crotches but also baring his arse for another sharp slap, which comes shortly. Deckard gasps again when it lands, hips twitching involuntarily from the quick sting of pain that simply serves to add another brick to the construction of his arousal. 

“Luke,” he gasps, his hips twitching into the bigger man’s. 

“I got you, babydoll. I got you,” Hobbs’ voice is husky and low. On a hunch, he lifts one hand from Deckard’s ass, dragging it up the other man’s back and wrapping his fingers lightly around the other man’s throat.

Deckard’s hips jerk against his as he lets out a whine, lifting one hand from Luke’s chest to grasp the hand around his throat by the wrist. He lets his head fall back, exposing his throat to Luke and lets out a moan.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Shaw, you kinky little shit.”

“You’re one to talk, Hercules. You’re the one who did it in the first place!”

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Hobbs agrees, grunting and squeezing his fingers lightly around Deckard’s throat, not tight enough to actually cut off air but tight enough that Deckard can feel the pressure, feel the power behind the bigger man’s fingers. 

Deckard’s eyes flutter shut above him, and  _ Jesus _ that’s hot.

“I wonder what it would feel like if I did this while you had my cock down your throat,” Luke muses. “Wonder if I could feel it if you choked around it.”

Deckard laughs above him and his hazel eyes open again, gazing down at Hobbs through hooded lids. “I don’t choke, darling:  _ I swallow _ .”

Luke groans and lets his head fall back onto the bed behind him. Fuck, isn’t that an image? Deckard with his mouth stuffed full of Luke’s cock, throat fluttering around the length, clever tongue darting along it, cool fingers grasping his hips as he bobs his head.  _ God, he doesn’t think he would be able to take it. He’d probably blow his load the moment Deckard took him into his mouth. And honestly who could blame him, the man’s fucking gorgeous on a good day, but like that? _ Luke groans again at the thought, lifting his head to meet Deckard’s eyes above him.

Deckard smirks at him, “You’re thinking about it aren’t you? Thinking about me sucking your cock, taking it down my throat, moaning and begging for it, holding your hips down as you buck up into my mouth?”

The smaller man lets go of the wrist he’s holding and instead drops his hand to Luke’s own throat, wrapping his fingers around his thick neck and squeezing gently.

Hobbs bares his teeth.

Deckard tightens his grip slowly, taking the same precautions Luke himself did earlier. 

_ “Down, boy…”  _

And damn, if Deckard keeps talking to him in  _ that _ voice, Luke will happily do whatever the fuck the other man wants him to. So he relaxes under Deckard, letting his head drop back to the mattress, giving in to Deckard’s hold on his throat. 

“That’s it, darling. I knew you could be good when you wanted to be. When someone  _ made _ you be…”

Luke moves his hands to Deckard’s hips and squeezes gently.

“Anything for you, baby.”

Deckard grins again. “That’s what I like to hear.”

He circles his hips, adjusting himself so that his arse drags across Luke’s crotch. The bigger man tries to lift his head up again, but Deckard presses him back with the hand on his throat. Hobbs stays down, but his hands drift down from Deckard’s hips to his legs, his fingers tickling across the skin of Deckard’s sensitive inner thighs. 

Deckard shudders and lets up on Luke’s neck, and the man rises as he does, lifting into a sitting position with Deckard in his lap, pulled tight against him. Hobbs shuffles back so that he’s leaning back against the headboard and wraps his thick arms around Deckard’s waist, pulling him even closer. 

As built as Deckard is, he’s nowhere near the size of Hobbs, so the shirt that Hobbs has lent him is slipping to the side slightly, exposing his prominent collarbones. Luke’s eyes dart down to the exposed skin, the tantalizing milky white made all the more obvious because of the black material of the t-shirt..

“Thinking about marking me up, Hobbs?”

He hadn’t been, but he sure as hell is now. He wants to press his mouth to the other man’s skin, sucking and nipping. Deckard seems to not mind a light sting of pain, so maybe Luke could use his teeth a little. Suck and nibble until a nice bruise formed on the other man, obvious against that pale skin.

“You’d look gorgeous with my marks on you, princess.”

“You think so, handsome?”

“Hell yeah, babe. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Walking around with my marks on you, letting everyone know just whose bed you were in?”

Deckard leans in close to him. “I’d enjoy it even more if you were wearing my marks, too.”

Luke groans, letting his head fall back and thunk into the headboard behind him.

“ _ Jesus, _ Deck.”

“Easy, Hobbs, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you lugnut. You’re already dumb, we don’t need you becoming braindead.”

Deckard cups his face with one hand and runs his other one across the back of his head, feeling out the area that had hit the headboard.

Luke thumbs Deckard’s hips again. “Gonna kiss it better, beautiful?”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it. Maybe it’s the barely concealed challenge in Luke’s eyes. Maybe it’s the affection coloring his voice when he calls him beautiful. Maybe it’s his own desire clouding his mind. But he cups Luke’s face in both hands and leans forward, pressing his lips to the other man’s forehead. Leaning back, he catches the shocked expression on the other man’s face, and it prompts a second of panic on his own part.

_ Fuck, why did he do that?! What was he thinking? Can he write it off as part of the game? The game’s never gone that far, though. Neither of them have so much as grazed the other’s skin with their lips. Fuck, he’s fucked up. Hobbs is probably going to— _

Smile at him, he realizes abruptly. 

Luke is smiling at him, that affectionate look still in his eyes. “Feels better already.”

Deckard can’t help rolling his eyes. “I’m sure,” he deadpans.

He rubs his thumbs over Luke’s cheekbones after a moment of hesitation. Luke thumbs his hips in response, looking up at him with that same smile. Deckard smiles back at him tentatively.

“There’s that smile, beautiful. I love it when you smile at me...Could look at it all day if you let me.”

And Deckard feels his fucking cheeks heat up again. God, he’s never been a blushy person but, of course, that was before Luke fucking Hobbs had come waltzing into his life, or rather Deckard had gone waltzing into his, forcing the other man to jump out of a fourth story window to save his partner’s life (but if Luke asks, he threw the other man out, winning their fight in the process). 

“I can be convinced,” he says softly, smiling down at Hobbs when a grin breaks out on the other man’s face. “And your smile’s not half bad either, She-Hulk.”

And with that, he lifts himself off of Luke’s lap, settling on the bed instead. He looks out the window, wondering if he should head back. He’s not as beat up as he usually is—he’d actually barely been beat up at all. He hadn’t needed to come to Hobbs’ but he had anyways. He pointedly doesn’t think about why.

Before he can even open his mouth to suggest leaving, Hobbs is there.

“Don’t even start, Deck, I know that look. Stay the night and get going in the morning. No harm done.”

“Thanks, love. Appreciate it,” he sighs. He feels Hobbs shift his weight and realizes that the other man’s about to get out of the bed, and a quick glance to Luke’s face reveals that the man’s intending to relocate to the armchair pulled up near the bed.  _ Fuck that. _

He turns and latches onto the other man, wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around the thick waist. His weight forces Hobbs down on top of him, and he braces for the breath to be knocked out of him and the glaring pain from his gash only for it to never come; Hobbs catches himself on his hands before he can crush Deckard underneath him. 

Deckard takes advantage of their proximity and leans up to whisper in Luke’s ear.

“Lay with me, darling. I want you against me.” And if it’s not exactly a lie, no one has to know but Deckard.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Luke agrees, maneuvering the both of them to curl up under the covers. He supports Deckard, who’s still hanging off of him like a koala, with a hand on his back, and lowers him gently to the bed. Deckard only lets go when he sees Luke’s legs are underneath the comforter, and he settles back into the soft mattress with a sigh. 

Luke turns and reaches for the light switch next to his bed, plunging the room into darkness, save for the miniscule light offered by the lampost outside the window. So Deckard feels more than sees Hobbs turn back to him, settling properly underneath the covers. He feels Luke’s hand dart across the space between them to find him. He shuffles closer, trying to feel out where Hobbs’ limbs are so that he doesn’t accidentally plop himself on top of one of them. Luke works with him, moving and adjusting until they’re both pressed together, facing one another.

Deckard runs a hand up Luke’s chest and around his shoulder so that he can cup the back of the man’s head. Luke runs his hand across the mattress as if he’s searching for something. Deckard stays still, not knowing what the other man is looking for. He feels Luke’s hand find his left elbow, then follow it down to his left wrist. Deckard stiffens.

Luke feels it, but he grasps Deckard’s wrist in gentle fingers anyways, seeking out the deep scars in the skin in the dark. He raises the hand, still grasping it by the wrist, lifting it outside the blanket and bringing it closer to his face. 

_ What the hell is Hobbs doing? _

He only realizes when he feels soft lips press against the ravaged skin. Deckard’s breath catches audibly in his throat in his surprise. Luke lingers just as Deckard had for a few moments before pulling away, tucking the hand to his broad chest and holding it there, against his beating heart. 

Deckard opens his mouth, wanting to say something,  _ anything, _ but his mind and throat both fail him, so he instead shifts even closer to Luke, trying to express with his body what he can’t with his words. Luke’s free arm traces around his waist to settle at the middle of his back, holding him close just as Deckard’s holding him.

Deckard shifts slightly, shuffling deeper into the blankets so that he can tuck his face beneath Luke’s chin. Luke lets out a deep chuckle above him that vibrates through Deckard’s body, but he holds Deckard close all the same, one warm hand on his back, and the other clutching Deckard’s scarred wrist against his chest. 

One of Deckard’s hands cups the back of Luke’s head, and the other is clutched against the man’s chest. Their hips are slotted together, with one of Deckard’s legs tucked between Luke’s. It’s an incredibly comfortable position to sleep in, and it’s also incredibly warm. Deckard’s eyes are already drifting shut, so he lets them fall shut, succumbing to the wave of sleep that rushes to greet him.

… 

Deckard sleeps like the dead, and wakes up feeling like he has to drag himself out of the welcoming depths of unconsciousness. They’re in pretty much the same position that they fell asleep in, and Deckard curls closer at the realization, feeling drowsy and sleepy like he hasn’t felt in years. He’s always been a light sleeper, so having to struggle to stay away is different for him. He carefully leans back slightly, just enough so that he can get a look at the other man’s face. 

Luke is still asleep, face relaxed and at ease as he slumbers. Deckard finds himself staring. He’s always found facial expressions interesting, and seeing Hobbs’ face slack with sleep is fascinating to him, considering he’s never seen it before. So he gazes unashamedly as he takes stock of their bodies.

The hand that Luke had pressed to his own chest is now clasped within the bigger man’s, and their legs are still tangled together. Deckard’s other hand has shifted from cupping the back of Luke’s head to instead grasp his shoulder. Luke’s other hand is heavy around his waist instead of pressed against his back as it had been last night.

Deckard tilts his head back with a wince, trying to ease his aching neck muscles—he must’ve drawn his shoulders up in his sleep again. He almost jumps when Luke’s hand suddenly shifts from around his waist to the back of his neck, pressing into the tight muscles with the pads of his fingers and the heel of his hand.

Deckard lets out a low moan as Luke works the muscles out. He glances back at Luke to find the other man’s eyes open, though he’s still blinking blearily, so he must have just woken up.

He hisses when Luke presses into a particularly stubborn muscle, and the man hums in apology, easing his fingers but still working on the same knot. Deckard squirms as he tries to avoid the discomfort.

“Stay still,” Luke’s voice is husky with sleep.

“Don’t tell me what to— _ ach! _ —do,” Deckard returns softly, finding his own voice lower and scratchier than usual. But he stays still despite his words, allowing Luke to work out his tight neck and shoulders, letting out soft moans when the stubborn knots give way. Deckard sighs after Luke works out the last knot, rolling his shoulders and his head gratefully.

“Thanks, darling,” he murmurs to Hobbs, who drops his arm back down to Deckard’s waist and squeezes in response.

They lay in silence, soaking in the company of the other. Deckard raises the hand on Hobbs’ shoulder to cup the back of his head again, rubbing absentmindedly. Luke purrs in his throat like a big cat getting petted, and Deckard hides a smile.

Finally Hobbs shifts, bringing their clasped hands up above the comforter so they can both look at them. Neither of them say anything, and their fingers remain tangled together. Deckard raises his gaze to meet Luke’s, and he finds the other man already looking at him.

“...Luke?” he murmurs.

“Yeah, beautiful?” Hobbs husks back.

Deckard opens his mouth without knowing what he’s going to say, caught up in the look on the other man’s face.

“Daddy?” the voice of a young girl cuts through the silence, accompanied by knocks on the door.

_ Samantha _

Both of them startle, and they jump apart on the bed, staring with wide eyes at the closed door. Deckard practically falls out of the bed in his dive for his cargo pants, which Luke had pulled off of him and dropped to the floor the previous night.

“Yeah, baby?” Hobbs calls back, not looking away from Deckard, who’s hurriedly pulling his pants over his legs, hiking them up so they’re sitting snug, cupping his ass and blanketing those built legs.

“I can’t reach the granola bars, and I wanted to eat one for breakfast. Can you come get them for me, please?”

“Gimme a second, sweetheart. I’ll meet you in the kitchen?”

“Yayyy! Thank you daddy!”

They both hold their breath as they listen to the set of little feet stampede away from the door, heading towards what Deckard assumes is the kitchen.

“I’ll head out this way,” Deckard gestures at the window in Hobbs’ room, making sure to keep his voice quiet.

Luke nods, “Sounds good, darling.”

“Thanks again, love… for everything.”

“I’m always here for you Deck… Always.”

Deckard can’t meet Luke’s eyes anymore, unused to the sincerity in the other man’s voice, so he turns around, heading for the window and opening it, clearing his throat awkwardly as he does so.

“Until next time then, Hobbs.”

“Take care, beautiful.”

He meets Luke’s eyes one last time, giving him a short nod before swinging himself out of the window, taking care to stay out of sight of any windows, not wanting Samantha to notice him. Hopping on his bike with little fanfare, he catches sight of his scarred wrist. Unbidden, he traces his fingers over the scars, remembering, despite himself, the feel of Hobbs’ lips against them. He trails his fingers over his own lips, remembering pressing them to Luke’s forehead in a soft kiss, the same way Luke had kissed his wrist. 

The early morning air isn’t anywhere near chilly, but Deckard shivers nonetheless. Shaking his head, he turns the ignition and starts the bike quietly, heading away from Hobbs’ home. 

He doesn’t notice Luke watching him go from the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They do be getting closer tho. I wonder what would have happened if Sam hadn't interrupted... Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the lateness, but I had to take a moment to sit back and really think about where I wanted this story to go. This chapter was actually supposed to go completely differently, but I decided to change it up, as well as the story as a whole. So hopefully you guys enjoy what I've done!

_ Where was he? _

_ Why had he come here? _

_ He’s hurt. But he’s not bleeding? His head hurts. But he hasn’t been hit? _

_ Everything’s spinning, dancing, moving. _

_ Fuck, where is he?  _

_ Why is he here? _

_ He needed to get somewhere safe…  _

Deckard heaves himself through the open window and collapses to the floor, shaking and trembling. 

_ Safe. He’s safe now. Safe  _

_ But where is he? _

_ Why is he here? _

_ Safe? _

The door to the room opens, and a figure steps in, pushing the door shut behind them. They haven’t seen Deckard yet.

_ Who is that? _

_ Where is he? _

_ Why is he here? _

“Deckard?!”

_ That’s his name, isn’t it?  _

_ Why does this person know his name? _

_ Is this person going to hurt him? _

The figure comes closer, moving at an alarmingly fast pace. Deckard scuttles back, pressing himself back against the wall, letting out a low whine in the back of his throat as he does. 

_ Arms up in front of the face to protect it. Legs curled in to protect groin and internal organs. Hands clenched into fists to protect fingers from being broken. Put a wall at the back so they can only approach from one side. _

_ Don’t be afraid. _

The figure keeps coming closer, and through his blurry vision, Deckard can tell that it’s a man. A  _ big _ man. Strong man. 

_ Afraid. _

He pushes himself harsher against the wall, trying to move back despite there being no more room. He whines again, his hands scrabbling against the floor as he tries to get his arms underneath him. Hands are coming towards him.

_ Pressure point in the inside of the elbow that causes pain. Jab quickly and pull back quick so hand doesn’t get caught.  _

_ Don’t panic. _

“ _ Jesus, _ what the  _ fuck _ , Shaw!”

_ The man is angry. Very angry. Anger means pain, pain, pain. _

_ Panic. _

“Hey… _ hey… _ Deckard, you have to calm down, you’re going to hyperventilate—”

_ The man is too close. Deckard can’t breathe. Why can’t he breathe?  _

_ Where is he? _

_ Safe? _

The man has moved. The man is kneeling. There’s space between them. And the man is on his knees. Why is the man on his knees? Da never got on his knees.

“Deckard, I don’t know what’s happened but you’ve gotta calm down. You’re hyperventilating…having a panic attack. I need you to breathe.”

_ Breathe? He can’t breathe. Chest hurts.  _

_ Can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t breathe _

_ Where is he? _

_ Is he safe? _

“Deckard, baby  _ please… _ listen to me. I’m not gonna come near you okay? I’m gonna stay right here but you’ve gotta breathe; Can you do that for me?”

_ Not going to come near? Da always came near. Da always kicked.  _

_ Kicking hurts. He doesn’t want kicks.  _

_ But the man’s on his knees. _

_ The man can’t kick if he’s on his knees. _

_ Why is Da on his knees? _

“Babydoll,  _ please, _ you gotta listen to me. Focus on my voice, babe. Focus on me—”

_ Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe _

_ Da used to strangle him, make it so he couldn’t breathe _

_ Is Da strangling him? _

He whimpers, clawing at his own throat.

_ Have to get Da off. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. _

_ Stop, Da _

_ Can’t breathe. _

_ Please stop, Da _

“Deck,  _ stop, _ you’re gonna make yourself bleed—”

_ Where is he? _

_ Why is he here? _

_ He’s not safe, he’s not safe, he’s not safe. _

_ Da found him…Da’s going to kill him. _

_ Make it so he can’t breathe. _

“Deckard, I need you to listen to me, beautiful—”

_ …Beautiful? _

_ Da doesn’t call him beautiful _

_ But someone else does _

_ Someone safe _

_ Who calls him beautiful? _

“That’s it, that’s it, beautiful, just like that—let go of your throat, baby, no one’s gonna hurt you. You can breathe, I know you can.”

_ He can breathe? _

_ He can breathe! _

_ Da let him go? _

_ Not Da, Da’s dead.  _

_ Who calls him beautiful?  _

“That’s it, beautiful. Now I just need you to slow your breathing, alright? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

_ Slow his breathing? Why does Da want him to slow his breathing? _

_ Not Da, Da’s…dead?  _

“ _ Hey, _ listen to my voice, baby. Don’t focus on anything else, just listen to me.”

_ Who calls him baby?  _

_ Who calls him beautiful? _

_ Someone safe. _

_ Safe? _

_ Focus on the man’s voice. Focus, focus, focus. _

“My name is Luke Hobbs. You’re in my house—Luke Hobbs’ house. You’re safe here, Deckard. No one’s going to hurt you—you’re safe.”

_ Luke? _

_ Who’s Luke? _

_ Safe? _

_ Luke sounds safe. _

_ Deckard feels safe. _

“I’m gonna move closer, alright, beautiful? I won’t touch you, but I want to move closer to you. I won’t hurt you. Can you tell me if that’s okay?”

Deckard whines.

“I’m gonna need more than that, baby. Can you nod your head?”

_ Nod? Move the head up and down. Signifies agreement. _

_ Agreement to what? _

_ The man wants to come closer. The man won’t hurt. _

_ The man is safe. _

_ Agree _

“Alright, thank you, doll. I’m gonna move closer now, alright? Gonna move closer to you. I won’t touch you.”

_ The man’s moving closer. _

Deckard whimpers, scrabbling backwards, or trying to, at least.

_ There’s a wall at his back _

_ Always keep a wall behind—only one side for people to attack. _

“Shhhh,  _ shhhh… _ it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re safe, beautiful, it’s ok.”

_ Safe?  _

_ Beautiful? _

_ Safe _

_ Beautiful _

Deckard’s body sags into the floor, relaxing.

_ “Luke.” _

Luke looks relieved beyond measure. 

_ Luke. Luke Hobbs.  _

_ Safe. _

“That’s me, babydoll, you back with me?”

_ “Luke.” _

Deckard tries to push himself up, arms trembling underneath him before giving out suddenly. Luke surges forward, catching him by the shoulders before he can hit the ground. Deckard grasps onto Hobbs’ shirt with his fingers, holding the material tightly in his fists.

Luke’s got his arms around Deckard in the next second, pulling him close.

_ “Luke… Luke....” _

“I got you, baby, you’re okay… you’re alright, I’ve got you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you here.”

Deckard pushes his face into Luke’s neck, breathing him in and nuzzling the skin he finds there, whining helplessly, panicked.

“Shhhh… It’s alright, beautiful. Everything’s alright. Your eyes are dilated. You drugged?”

Deckard makes another distressed noise into Luke’s shirt.

“Alright, sweetheart, it’s alright, you’re okay. You don’t need to be scared. I’m not ever going to hurt you.”

“ _ Luke…” _

_ Safe _

_ Safe _

_ Safe _

And with that, Deckard’s mind finally allows his body to shut down, falling into unconsciousness and slumping into Hobbs’ body. His fingers remain clutched in Hobbs’ shirt, not loosening their death hold even as his body goes limp in Hobbs’ arms. His head lolls and starts to slip from Luke’s shoulder, but the bigger man catches it with a careful palm, settling it back in place.

He slowly rises to his feet, lifting Deckard up with him. He deposits the other man on the bed silently, then takes a step back, untangling the man’s grabby fingers from his shirt as he does so. Deckard’s face has finally relaxed, but the muscles in his biceps are twitching. Luke’ willing to bet that Deckard’s not even controlling the action, but rather that the man’s muscles are seizing, fighting off whatever’s been injected into him.

He collapses heavily in the armchair that’s remained pulled up to the bed ever since Deckard came around for the first time, resting his elbows on his knees. He gets back up, needing to pace, needing to  _ move. _ He scrubs a hand over his mouth, then over the back of his head. 

_ Jesus, they got the other man good. What did they get in him? Should Luke be looking for withdrawal symptoms? What if it’s something serious? Cocaine, Heroin, Speed—? Fuck, what if Deckard’s been juiced up on the stuff? Who the hell did this to him?  _

Luke clenches his fists, forcing himself to stop pacing and  _ breathe _ for a few seconds. He feels like letting loose, screaming, raging, punching—but Sam’s in the house, and he’s never going to scare her like that, no matter how angry he may get. She knows her daddy’s got the fight of a lion, but she’s never actually  _ seen _ it for herself, and he doesn’t ever want her to. Not when that could stick with her for years to come.

But,  _ Jesus, _ he’s tempted. He lets out another breath, then turns back to face Deckard, lying eerily still on the bed. His breathing’s more rapid than usual, and Luke knows that if he steps up to take the other man’s pulse, it’ll be beating frantically and inconsistently against his fingers. 

_ Fuck, he’s angry again. He’s fucking furious. Who the hell drugged the other man? Was this another op for Nobody? He’s going to fucking kill the man—how did Deckard even get here? Did he drive himself in this state?! _

He’s startled by his phone ringing on the bedside table.  _ Who the hell would be calling him at this time? _ He lets it go to voicemail, not caring enough to pick it up when Deckard’s lying still and pale on his bed, when the he was shaking and gasping and  _ cowering _ against the wall earlier, fear in his eyes and body. Where did the other man think he was?

The phone rings again, making Luke startle, and he stalks over to it angrily, wanting to take his rage out on something. Whatever dipshit decided to call him at midnight is going to fucking hear a piece of his mind— 

The name flashes on the screen right before Luke picks it up.

_ Hattie Shaw _

Welp there goes that plan. He picks the phone up anyways.

“Hel—”

Hattie’s voice is frantic, and she’s talking almost too fast for him to understand, her accent more prominent than it usually is. 

“ _Luke—_ Deckard was sent in to some warehouse but he’s vanished—no one knows where he is. He trashed the place, but it’s violent, uncoordinated, _sloppy—_ I think he’s been hurt, but no one’s fucking _listening_ to me except for Owen, and even he can’t find him. We’ve been looking but we don’t know where he’s gone and we can’t fucking find him—” her breath hitches, and Luke can tell even through the phone that she’s close to tears.

_ “Hattie, _ he’s here. He’s safe. He came to me.”

“He’s with you? He’s safe? Luke, is he hurt—is he alright—”

“I think he’s been drugged, but I don’t know what with. But other than that, he’s fine; He’s not bleeding, not bruised, just shaken. Here—let me—”

And Luke pulls the phone away from his ear to snap a quick photo of Deckard on the bed, passed out, sending it to Hattie before putting the phone back up to his ear.

He hears Hattie fumbling for a moment, presumably looking at the photo he’s sent, before he hears a sigh of relief.

“ _ Owen! He’s at Luke’s! He’s safe. Here, look.” _

Luke hears a soft voice, clearly masculine,

_ “Luke? Luke Hobbs?” _

_ “Yeah, Luke Hobbs.” _

Luke holds his breath, ready for the rebukes to start flying. There’s no lost love between him and Owen Shaw, and he’s sure the younger doesn’t appreciate his older brother coming to Luke instead of to his own family.

_ “Good.” _

Wait, what?!

_ “Hobbs’ll keep him safe.” _

Did he just hear that right?

_ “Who’s on the phone?” _

_ “Hobbs,” _ Hattie replies nonchalantly.

A pause, then. 

“ _ Bugger. Cheers, Hobbs.” _

“Uhh, hey man.”

Well fuck, this is awkward

_ “Don’t hurt him.” _

“I won’t.”

Hattie puts the phone back to her ear, and her voice comes through clearer.

“Owen and I will scout out the warehouse he was at, see if we find anything on what he’s got in his system. I’m sure you know how to patch him up, so I’ll leave you to it.”

“Yeah, I got—wait hold on how do you know about…Does Deckard talk about me?” 

“Oh yeah, a lot.”

“Oh.” If his voice comes off smug, it’s because he’s got every right to be.

Hattie snorts, “Don’t get too excited, Luke. He’s mostly talking shit about you.”

“...Oh.” Well, he’s definitely not feeling smug now.

“But I mean he does also get half naked and hump you like a horny teenager, so I don’t really know what to tell you.”

“Ah,” Luke says eloquently, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. He’s suddenly glad Hattie’s not with him in person because he  _ definitely _ wouldn’t be able to meet her eyes.

_ “Ah,” _ Hattie repeats pointedly, sounding plenty smug herself.

“It’s not…It’s uhhh…It’s just—” Hobbs tries to explain, unable to find a series of words that will properly defend him.

“A game? I didn’t realize you got down and dirty with everyone just for fun.”

“Not with  _ everyone,” _ Luke defends instantly, only to facepalm because god,  _ that _ doesn’t sound any better.

_ “Oh?” _ And suddenly, Hattie’s voice sounds dangerous. “So you’ve been humping people other than my older brother?”

_ “No! _ No, no no. It’s just Deckard. Just Deckard.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s not serious or anything. We’re just—messing around?”

“Do you really believe that, Luke?”

And suddenly Luke’s voice is the one that drops dangerously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh save it, Hobbs. It’s obvious you’re smitten with him. Even O sees it, and he wouldn’t be able to see someone coming onto him if they held out a ring in front of him.”

“I’m  _ not—”  _ Luke splutters.

“—You’ve got Deck thinking. Try a little harder and you’ll get him, Luke.”

“Thinking? Thinking about what?!”

“Exactly what  _ you’re _ thinking about.”

_ “I’m _ not thinking—”

“Clearly, if you’re denying this. Honestly, anyone with eyes could see it.”

_“See_ _wh_ —Okay look, this isn’t the point—I wanted to ask about something. It was something Deckard did when I found him in my room today.”

“Go on.”

“He was on the floor when I came in. When he saw me, he pushed himself back until his back was against the wall. Pulled his arms up in front of his face, clutched the back of his head, curled his fingers into fists, drew his knees up—”

He hears Hattie take in a sharp breath.

“Hattie? You know why he did that? I get that he didn’t recognize me, but even then, he’s always been one to fight when threatened, why would he—”

“You know, you’re built a lot like our Da.”

And Luke’s words freeze in his throat. Hattie’s voice is soft, empty, but Hobbs has enough experience with Shaws to know that the empty voice doesn’t signify anything near nonchalance.

“...Your facial features and voice and everything else are completely different; Da had a head of hair, and he was pale, had a mustache and a beard, and even his face was shaped different, but your stature is the same. Wide shoulders. Strong. Big...” Hattie trails off.

Luke feels a sharp bite of pain and looks down to see that he’s clenched his hands so hard that his blunt nails have started to dig into the skin of his palm. He loosens his fist deliberately.

“So Deckard thought I was…thought I would…” he can’t finish the thought.

“Don’t take it personally, Luke…He was out of it.” Hattie’s voice is still soft, clearly caught up in memories that Luke can’t begin to even imagine. “...Da taught us, when we were younger…that there was no point in fighting him,” Hattie’s voice is tentative and small in a way Luke hasn’t ever heard it before. “He made sure we knew it, too—that we couldn’t fight him. Made us curl up—arms up so he didn’t damage anything visible, legs up so he didn’t damage anything vital. No point in fighting back…he was too strong,” she pauses, chuckling humorlessly, quietly, “or maybe we were just too weak…”

_ “Fuck you, Hattie.” _

“...Pardon?”

“I said  _ fuck you, _ Hattie.  _ Fuck you,” _ and Luke thought he was angry before, but that feels like  _ nothing  _ compared to what he’s feeling with the information he’s just found out. “Deckard— _ you— _ even fucking Owen if he’s listening—you were never  _ weak. _ You were  _ kids. _ You shouldn’t have had to be strong in the first place! He was your  _ dad. _ You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself! You shouldn’t have had to learn to fight, he was supposed to take  _ care _ of you, and he didn’t fucking do that. Deckard threw me out a fucking building the first time we met, you put me in a chokehold and pointed a gun at my head—even Owen fucking walked out on me when I was supposed to take him in. You’re all fucking  _ ruthless _ on a good day, so  _ fuck you Hattie  _ and  _ fuck everything you just said.” _

He’s breathing like a bull after his rant, muscles tensed, angry beyond reason because  _ how the fuck _ could someone so  _ worthless _ ever make these three hurt so much that they’re still scared  _ decades _ after—

“He’s dead, right? Hattie, tell me he’s dead. ‘Cause if he’s not I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“You’re a cop, Luke.”

“Technically, I’m retired.”

There’s a short pause, then Hattie’s voice comes through again,

“...You’ll be good for him.”

“ _ For your dad?!” _

“ _ No _ , you  _ dolt _ . For Deckard. You’ll be good for Deckard.”

And fuck, why is he even trying to deny anything at this point? He _ likes  _ Deckard _. _ Shit, he wants to take him out on a date, show him how he  _ should _ be treated by someone who cares about him. He wants to kiss the other man, wants to see him smile, wants to hear him laugh. He wants Deckard to trust him, to feel safe with him.

“...I hope I can be,” he says quietly.

There’s a moment of silence, then Owen’s voice cuts through again.

_ “Damn, I knew he fancied Deck, but I didn’t realize he was in love.” _

“Fuck off, Shaw,” Luke scoffs.

Two voices answer him. “Which one?”

“Both of you, all of you.”

_ “All but one, I’m sure—” _

_ “Good point, O; I’m sure Hobbs definitely wants to fuck—” _

“Hattie!” Luke says, scandalized. 

_ “What, am I wrong?” _

And Luke can hear Owen laughing in the background. He’s got the same cackle as Deckard—must run in the family, and even though it’s not Deckard it’s coming out of, the sound of it still makes Luke smile, remembering the grin on Deckard’s face.

“Alright, I think that’s enough of you two for one day: I’m hanging up now—gonna take care of your brother. Call me if you find anything?”

“We will. Have fun, Luke.”

_ “Not too much fun,” _ Owen calls from the back.

Luke hangs up on the two of them laughing like hyenas.

He runs a hand over the back of his head again.  _ Well at least he has the Shaws’ blessings? _ He turns back to the bed, having been facing away from it earlier, to get a glance at Deckard. He’s still breathing too fast for Luke’s liking, and his face is scrunched up, body tense in something that Luke reads as pain.

Frowning, he stalks over to his desk and grabs his laptop, carrying it over to the bed so that he can keep an eye on Deckard. He climbs carefully onto the mattress, careful not to shift so much that Deckard’s body is moved by his carelessness. Propping himself up against the headboard, he opens his laptop and starts looking up withdrawal symptoms, looking down at Deckard and prodding at him occasionally to check. 

Now that Luke is closer to him, he can see that Deckard’s shivering.  _ Cold flushes _ , he thinks absently. He quickly climbs off the bed and circles it to lift Deckard’s upper body against his chest for a moment, wrestling the blankets out from underneath the brit’s limp body. When he’s got the comforter pulled down, he places Deckard, with utmost care, back onto the mattress. Before he pulls the covers up again, he chances a feel at Deckard’s face, feeling for a fever, but the skin under his hand is clammy. He frowns again, running both hands along Deckard’s body. The man’s sweater is damp in places with sweat, and what little exposed skin that Luke can get his hands on is cold and clammy to the touch. 

Luke figures that the other man won’t appreciate being in sweat-stained clothes when he comes to, so he quickly props Deckard up against himself again and pulls the other man’s sweater off, careful to not let it obstruct the man’s nose or mouth for too long as he tugs it over Deckard’s head. That done, he runs his hands down Deckard’s clothed legs. The other man’s wearing a set of cargo pants, and they’re dry to the touch when put to Luke’s inspection, so he leaves them on Deckard for the time being.

_ Cold flush, hallucinations, dilated eyes, blown pupils, sweating, fatigue… _

From what he can see, none of the symptoms are  _ too _ concerning—except for the hallucinations but Luke’ll let that one slide for now—so he’s thankfully not panicking as much as he was earlier. It shouldn’t be anything  _ too _ serious—probably only something to force Deckard off his game, to subdue him. 

_ And boy, does that make his blood fucking boil. _

Taking calming breaths, he tries to recall what Hattie told him: Deckard had trashed the place—violent, sloppy—to get out of there. Luke smirks at the thought—the brit might have been drugged, but if whoever had done it to him had thought it was going to make Deckard easier to deal with? Man, they must’ve been met with an unpleasant surprise. Not that they wouldn’t deserve it—having those sorts of drugs on hand was never a good sign, and injecting it into any random infiltrator was even less one. Chances were, Deckard had taken care of something that was better off shut down. And if he did it more violently than he had needed to? Well, Luke definitely wouldn’t be the one to call him on it. Not when he’s feeling some pretty violent tendencies himself, at the moment.

He lets out a deep breath as he lays Deckard back, tugging the comforter over him, but only to his chest, afraid that Deckard might suffocate or something if he pulls it further. Deckard’s still shivering, though, and that won’t do. Luke straightens quickly, reaching over Deckard to grab his laptop to deposit it back at his desk.

Stripping his shirt off and tossing it in the direction of the hamper as he’s heading back to the bed, he climbs up onto his side again, curling underneath the covers so he can get closer to Deckard. He turns the other man and pulls him into his arms carefully, tucking Deckard close. Deckard’s hands are limp next to his body, so Luke takes them and presses them to his chest, unfurling the fingers from the fists they’ve clenched into and placing the open palms on his chest, shuddering as cold fingertips come into contact with his warm skin. He grasps the back of one of Deckard’s thighs and pulls it between his own legs, making sure the other man’s feet are also tucked against his calves. 

And then, settled and satisfied, he watches Deckard; It’s probably creepy as all fuck and the brit will definitely tell him so when he wakes up, but Luke doesn’t want any potential symptoms slipping past his attention. He’s going to take care of Deckard, and this is how he’s gonna do it, no matter how creepy and stalker-like it is. 

And while he is mainly looking for symptoms, he’s not adverse to just staring at Deckard, either.  _ Fuck, _ the other man is  _ gorgeous. _ Luke doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it. Even sweaty, clammy, and clearly going through basic withdrawal, Deckard is one of the most  _ stunning _ people he’s ever met. He knows he tells the brit every chance he gets that he’s gorgeous, but he doesn’t think Deckard understands just how much he  _ means _ it. 

He’ll believe it soon enough, if Luke has his way. The way he sees it, he’s got nothing but time to get the other man to listen to him. 

He remembers, abruptly, the feel of Deckard’s lips against the crown of his head, the feel of the man’s scarred wrist under his own lips, the way the other man had seemed to shake himself out of a reverie before starting his bike and taking off.

Luke found himself awake at night thinking about it—the way Deckard had carefully cradled his head and leaned forward to brush his soft lips against his skull, the way he had lingered, the expression on his face when he had leaned back. He had looked surprised, as if he hadn’t known why he had done it. Luke didn’t know why he had done it either, but the fluttering and smug feeling in his gut told him that he’d enjoyed the contact, however brief it was.

It’s actually pretty funny if he thinks about it hard enough—He and Deckard bump and grind against each other on a daily basis, getting half naked and up close and personal, and  _ none _ of that had left as big an impact as Deckard leaving a barely-there peck on his forehead. Luke lay awake thinking not about Deckard’s body, his ass, or the way he felt pressed up against Luke’s own body, but rather the smile that would occasionally blossom across the brit’s face, the cackle that left his lips, the feel of his lips brushing against Luke’s forehead—those had left Luke staring up at his ceiling in the darkness of his room, tossing and turning as he tried, uselessly, to get to sleep.

Luke snorts to himself; it’s ironic, but not surprising; Deckard’s smile is fucking gorgeous, and his laugh is just funny, and the peck to his forehead…the peck to his forehead had felt like a promise. One that Luke didn’t even know was being made. What was Deckard trying to press into his skin with the contact? Did Deckard even know? 

It was that small contact, the brush of lips across Luke’s forehead, that had really gotten him thinking. Everything he had told Hattie was right—fuck, he wants to know what it would be like to just  _ be _ with Deckard. Maybe he’s just a hopeless romantic (as Deckard would surely tease him if he knew), but he  _ wants that _ with the brit.

Unbidden, the thought of Brian and Dom crosses his mind. In the privacy of his own head, he can admit that he’s  _ jealous _ of their relationship, if only for the quiet comfort and the unwavering loyalty the two seem to get from one another. He hasn’t known Dom all that long, but he’s known Brian since the man was twenty, fresh on the force and bright-eyed, and he doesn’t think he’s  _ ever _ seen the man as happy as he is now. And from what little he knows about Dom, he can tell that the man is just as crazy about Brian.

_ Ride or die, indeed _

He’s jealous of them, but not in a mean way—he’s happy for them, he really is. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that the two love each other deeply, and they’re probably the best complements of a whole that any couple can be. He’s just jealous of the ease of their relationship, he guesses. Jealous of how happy they seem to be, how content.  _ Domestic, _ he’d explained to Deckard the other night. 

He’s not the type of person to think like this, though, so he lets the topic drop from his mind and focuses back in on Deckard, pressing careful fingers to his throat to get a bearing of his pulse and pulling back slightly to look at the other man’s face. Deckard seems to be sweating a lot, and from the little medical knowledge that Luke has, he’s pretty sure that’s a good thing? Like sweating out a fever he’s pretty sure, and for that he’s immensely glad. It must mean that Deckard’s coming down from whatever the hell he’s been given.

He goes to lay his head back on the pillow, but his phone ringing from the nightstand catches his attention. He props himself up on an elbow carefully and reaches across Deckard to grab it, fumbling and nearly dropping it before pulling his arm back in, answering the call as he does. He puts the phone to his ear and speaks,

“Hello?”

“It’s nothing too serious, Hobbs. Just something to get him off his guard. He should be sweating it off, and he’ll be alright by morning,” It’s Owen’s short voice that greets him, not Hattie’s as Luke had assumed it would be.

Luke lets out a sigh of relief at the words either way. “Yeah he’s sweating a lot, so I guess that’s good. He was twitching a bit earlier, and his eyes were rolling in his head, but it’s stopped now, so I think he’s coming down from it. Do you know how much was in his system? Or how long?”

“Fuckers didn’t even get a full dose in him—he must’ve broken away before they could. The full dose would have made him completely useless—wouldn’t have been able to control his body at all. As for how long, I’d say about two to four hours, counting the time that he trashed this place and headed to yours.”

“Cool… What the hell was Deckard doing there anyways? Do you know? Who was he dealing with?”

“Child trafficking ring. That’s why they had the drugs on hand.”

And that makes Luke’s blood run absolutely cold.

_ “Why the fuck were they trying to get it in Deckard, then?” _

Owen’s regularly short voice becomes even shorter, if possible, with anger. “I don’t know what the fuck they were trying to do, but for their sakes I’m going to say that they were just trying to throw him off his game and that’s it.”

Luke glances down at Deckard, pressed close to him and held close with Luke’s arm around his waist. “Joke’s on them, huh? Hattie told me he trashed the place anyways.”

“Oh yeah. Shit, it’s violent. Blood everywhere. Bodies. He wasn’t pulling his punches. There wasn’t anything careful or calculating about it—you know how he is usually—it’s just messy. But I guess it’s effective. Here, let me—”

Luke hears Owen fumbling with the phone for a few minutes, and he waits patiently. Sure enough, his phone pings with an incoming message. He opens it to find a video. Even  _ he’s _ shocked at the pure  _ carnage _ that Deckard had unleashed, but he’s nowhere near upset. Not at Deckard anyways. He says as much to Owen.

Owen snorts. “Yeah, I’m with you on that one, mate. Can’t find a shred of pity for these bastards. And that’s without even taking the child molester aspect into consideration.” 

Luke hums his agreement. They spend a moment in silence before Owen’s voice rings through again.

“How is he? You said he was seizing earlier? Did he do anything else?”

“Yeah, he was seizing earlier, and you heard about the hallucinations when I talked to Hattie. Other than that he’s just sweating. He’s still out cold—I don’t think he’s gonna come around for a few more hours. He’s breathing fine, passages don’t seem blocked, and he’s not injured otherwise.”

“Good…Take care of him, Hobbs.”

Luke doesn’t even hesitate. “I will.”

Owen’s quiet for a beat then speaks up again. “He really does trust you, you know? He’s a flight risk, can’t handle commitment for reasons that I’m not about to share with you, but he keeps going back to you. Don’t get me wrong he talks shit about you all the time like Hattie said, but it’s…fond. Affectionate.” Owen’s voice suddenly takes on a smug pitch. “And that’s without even accounting for the other… _ activities _ that you two get up to.” 

Luke clears his throat abruptly. “I gotta tell you man, I really didn’t think I’d be having this conversation with  _ you _ of all people.”

Owen lets out that little snort again. “Yeah, reckon it’s rather strange, yeah? How these things end up?”

That’s a strangely insightful statement, coming from Owen Shaw, but Luke guesses he doesn’t really know much about the other man other than what he was like when he was twisted by Cipher. Shit, maybe the other man is into philosophy, who fucking knows. At least that would explain why he isn’t blowing his top over Deckard shacking up with Luke. Maybe he’s a go-with-the-flow type of guy. Either way, Luke hums in agreement, looking, once again, at Deckard curled against him. “Yeah, definitely.”

Deckard shifts suddenly in his arms, letting out a low groan, tossing his head from one side to the other in what Luke reads as agitation. 

“Hey…  _ hey… _ easy… You’re alright, beautiful. You’re safe. You can rest, I won’t let you get hurt here.  _ You’re safe…” _

Deckard snuffles, then slowly settles at Luke’s soft cajoling, falling back into a somewhat uneasy sleep. 

Luke snorts. “Drama queen.”

“...You’ve really got it bad, huh, Hobbs?” Owen’s voice rings through after a beat of hesitation. Or maybe it’s a beat of surprise, not like Luke would know.

“Shut it, Shaw. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you two to cuddle. Don’t get up to anything  _ too _ active. At least not until he’s properly awake. After that, I guess it’s free reign.”

_ “Bye,  _ Shaw,” Luke says pointedly, ignoring the hyena laugh that follows the statement before he cuts the call, reaching back over to dump the phone back on the bedside table, all the while shaking his head ruefully. The last thing he needs was for the Shaw siblings to know about his sex life, but it seems like the two of them come with Deckard, and Luke can’t really bring himself to be too upset about it. Not when it means that he has a better shot of getting Deckard. 

He lays his head back down on the pillow, tucking Deckard close again. The other man’s skin is still clammy to the touch, but it just means that Deckard’s coming down from whatever he’d been on, so Luke can’t find himself to be too bothered by it. Not when it means that Deckard’s recovering. He lays in silence for a few moments, one arm around Deckard’s waist and the other grasping the back of one of the brit’s thighs. 

_ “You’ve got Deck thinking. Try a little harder and you’ll get him, Luke.” _

He would. If that was what it would take, then he would.

… 

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but as he comes to with Deckard still in his arms, he realizes that he must have. The other’s man’s skin is cool, but not clammy as it had been earlier, which is a relief, and he’s tucked his nose into the crook of Luke’s neck, which seems to be a favorite of his whenever they’re in this position.

Luke blinks sleepily, trying to get a bearing for his limbs as his drowsiness fades. The hand that had been wedged underneath Deckard, wrapped around his waist, had been retracted at one point in time in the night, and was now tucked under Luke’s body. His other hand, which had been grasping the back of one of Deckard’s thighs, however, had drifted upwards during the duration of the night, and was now proudly splayed on Deckard’s ass. 

_ Nice one—the guy comes to you because he feels safe with you and trusts you and you go and molest him in his sleep—fucking phenomenal. _

Annoyed with himself, he removes the hand, dropping it to once again clutch at Deckard’s thigh, which is largely safer territory to be in. 

“I actually preferred where your hand was before, love.”

Luke isn’t able to hide his jerk of surprise in time, and he knows Deckard has felt it when the other man chuckles breathily into Luke’s neck. And something about it, about the  _ scenario _ in general suddenly annoys Luke. He doesn’t rise to the bait like he would any other time.

“Didn’t think you’d appreciate me molesting you in your sleep.” 

It’s a rather flat answer, lacking any of the teasing or flirting that usually accompanies their banter, but Luke can’t bring himself to feel upset, not when Deckard is trying to shrug off the way he’d come in last night, how afraid he’d been. 

Deckard pauses, clearly caught of guard, not expecting Luke to evade the offer he’d thrown down. Luke takes a brief and slightly unfair amount of satisfaction in the reaction. 

“I wouldn’t mind if it was you, darling,” Deckard says carefully, lacking the ease with which he usually flings out his flirtatious quips, but clearly still determined to avoid the topic of the previous night.

“Seeing you drugged, scared, and incognizant on the floor doesn’t really do it for me,” it comes out harsher than Luke means for it to, caught up with his own frustration, and Deckard hears it. 

The brit’s body begins to tense in Luke’s arms, and he retracts his head from its position in the junction of Luke’s neck and shoulder, drawing back slightly. His voice is harder than his words when he responds, clearly hellbent on avoiding the topic altogether. He’s nothing if not stubborn.

“Well, either way, I rather liked your hand where it w—” 

“Stop,” Luke cuts him off, and Deckard pauses, mid-sentence, hazel eyes darting up to look into Luke’s face, probably gauging his expression. His body is as tense as a bowstring, and his face is carefully shuttered, hiding whatever he’s thinking, whatever he’s feeling. And Luke’s frustrated, again. Why can’t Deckard just be straightforward—why does he have to talk around what he wants to say—why does every genuine action always surprise him? 

Luke opens his mouth, but Deckard’s already moving, using his hands to push against Luke’s chest so he can untangle himself from the man’s body. He turns away the first chance he gets, moving his arm quickly to avoid the hand that Luke reaches out to grab him with.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” the fucker doesn’t even turn around when he says it, raspy voice quiet but blunt, powerful in a way that even a shout wouldn’t be.

“Too bad,” Luke snaps, sitting up, the comforter sliding off his broad shoulders to drape itself across his lap. He reaches out and finally succeeds in wrapping his hand around Deckard’s bicep, which tenses in his grip like a warning. “You don’t get to fucking waltz in and out of my home whenever you feel like it without a goddamn explanation.”

“Fine then, I’ll go someplace else next time,” Deckard bites back, hackles raised. He’s swinging his legs around the side of the bed, clearly preparing to get up, to get his things, to  _ leave. _

“Fuck you, Shaw. You know that’s not what I’m asking you to do—” Luke throws the comforter off of himself, letting go of Deckard in favor of swinging his own legs over the other side of the bed, getting to his feet so he can stalk around it to reach the brit.

He’s glad for it when Deckard gets to his feet and takes a step forward, only for his knee to buckle underneath him, sending him to the floor. He reaches out quickly, managing to get a hold of the smaller man before he can hit the ground, and he uses his grip to straighten Deckard, who’s gone stiff the moment Luke’s hands landed on his bare arms. Luke might be angry, but that doesn’t mean he’s abandoned the care that he’s developed for Deckard.

The brit, however, seems surprised that Luke had even reached out, but he grudgingly accepts the help, stabilizing himself with Luke’s arms to try and get his balance. They stand like that for a few moments, with Luke standing a foot or so away from Deckard with his hands on the other man’s biceps, supporting him. Deckard’s body relaxes minutely as the moments pass, spared from Luke’s words and the truth that he needed to confront.

Sensing his chance, Luke drops one of the hands grasping the other man’s arms to instead wrap around his waist, pulling him in. Deckard stumbles slightly, knees still wobbly, and thus isn’t able to stop himself from getting pulled close to Hobbs, pressed together from hips to chest. He’s even more unprepared for the hand that goes to the back of his neck, cupping it gently.

His own hands had initially flown to Hobbs’ chest when the bigger man had pulled him in, and they stay there, clenching the material of Hobbs’ T-shirt in his fists as he tilts his head back slightly to be able to look Luke in the eyes.  _ Goddamn it all, he didn’t need this.  _

The fucking big idiot’s previous words had been harsh, but his hands are nothing but gentle, careful, as they always have been. And suddenly Deckard hates it. Hates the fact that he associates this house, this man with safety and comfort. He hates that it’s become a place to lick his wounds. He knows better than that.  _ His father taught him better that that. _

Why had he come here in the first place? He should have been able to deal with whatever the fuck they’d injected him with on his own. He didn’t need Hobbs, didn’t need his help.

“I don’t need your charity,” he bites out angrily, “or your pity, for that matter.”

And if he’d been aiming to hurt—which he  _ had _ been, he devoutly tells himself—he’s knows he’s succeeded when Luke’s face falls slightly, incapable as the other man is of hiding what he’s feeling.  _ Wears his heart on his fucking sleeve.  _ Even as he thinks it, he knows he’s trying to find excuses, trying to procure reasons to be angry where there are none.

“Is that what you really think this is?” Luke’s voice is quiet, but the words resonate around the room, striking and echoing in the ringing silence that’s fallen around them. 

And suddenly this thing that’s blossomed between them is there, thrown at Deckard’s feet, forcing him to acknowledge it. But how could be possibly do so? How could be possibly acknowledge the passion, the attraction, the attachment, the  _ weakness _ when he’s been warned against it so many times—when he’s been  _ punished _ for it so many times. Da’s not around anymore, but his lessons linger on Deckard’s mind and body, in the burns on his legs and the bullet scar in his thigh, in the scars on his wrist and the memories embedded in his mind. 

“I don’t see what else it could be,” he snarls, even as his anger abandons him as fast as it joined him, hopelessness taking its place

The way Luke looks at him is sad, as if he  _ knows _ what Deckard is feeling—but he  _ doesn’t, _ which is what makes all of this even worse. Because Deckard knows that he’s  _ hurting _ Luke, who he’s come to care about, and Luke couldn’t possibly know why.

“You know as well as I do that’s not what this is, darlin’.”

“Then what is it?” the words intended to come out as a barb instead leave his lips like a plea. 

“Why do you come here?” Luke answers the question with a question, refusing to give an answer until he’s been granted one. And Deckard knows that Luke has every right to an answer, after everything the other man has done for him—patched him up, comforted him, given him a place to sleep, given him someone to trust to watch his back. 

But Deckard’s always been a coward, even if he doesn’t want to accept it. He can’t form an attachment, can’t give someone that kind of power over him, can’t put himself out the way Luke wants him to. And he can’t tell Luke any of this either because the other man just wouldn’t understand.

He turns his head away. 

Luke’s hand drops from the back of his neck, then the arm around his waist loosens. 

“I see,” the other man’s voice is quiet, but Deckard doesn’t look up to meet the other man’s gaze, both ashamed and relieved when Luke doesn’t demand him to.

Deckard straightens and pushes off of Luke slowly, pulling back from the other man, who steps back the moment Deckard’s clear. He watches Deckard for another moment, then turns away when the brit still refuses to meet his eyes.

Luke almost regrets demanding answers from Deckard—this wasn’t the way he saw it ending up—but he wanted the other man’s acknowledgement. He wanted some sort of proof from Deckard himself that whatever was going on between them could grow into something bigger, better, but he should have known better. Deckard’s stubborn, independent, and he’s not out for pursuing whatever this thing might be, for seeing where it could have taken them. Luke would be disappointed, but there would be no fucking point. This is Deckard Shaw he was talking to _—what else could he have expected from him,_ he thinks bitterly.

Deckard’s still shirtless, so Luke grabs a sweater from his dresser, tossing it to the other man without looking. He doesn’t think he’d be able to meet the other man’s eyes without blowing up at him, and Deckard, despite everything, doesn’t deserve that. It wasn’t him who had been stupid enough to want something where there couldn’t be anything, after all.

Deckard, safe to look now that Luke has turned his back, watches as the bigger man crosses the room to the dresser almost mechanically, pulling a black jumper off the hook carelessly and tossing it to him without looking. Deckard uses the excuse to turn his back and look away from Luke, pulling it on. His arms still feel weak, his fingers like gelatin, but he’s not going to overstay his welcome, not going to ask for help where he has no right. He never should have come here in the first place, all those nights ago. Never should have asked for help, never should have laughed and joked with Luke, never should have gotten so  _ attached _ when he knew all along that he was too afraid to take that final step.

He’d basically been leading Luke along, and he’s sure the other man thinks as much, as well, considering the way those broad shoulders are slumped inwards.  _ Slumped posture, avoiding eyes, changing topic, _ he thinks to himself, fingering the jumper Luke had thrown to him and eyeing the way the other man still won’t turn to face him,  _ indicates embarrassment, guilt, transgression of values. _

And it’s that last one that burns the most out of all of them.  _ Luke had seemed so convinced that Deckard was a good person, a person worth understanding and compassion, worth getting close with; Had he changed his mind now? _

It shouldn’t burn, Deckard tells himself. He had known this all along—he knows that Luke was wrong, that he didn’t know enough about Deckard to really make any sort of judgements about him.

_ He called me beautiful, _ he thinks humorlessly.  _ What a fucking joke. _

He turns towards the window, opening it slowly, ignoring the way his fingers are still partially numb and the way he shudders at the chilly early-morning breeze that blows in.

“So that’s it, then?” Luke seems to have been unable to keep the words to himself. Deckard almost wishes the other man would have stayed silent. It would have made this easier—walking away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s walked away from something he wanted, but it  _ is _ the first time he’s struggled so much doing so. He wishes Luke would make this easier. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Luke,” Deckard sighs, still facing the window.

“You do. You  _ do _ know, and you’re running from it.”

Deckard lets a few moments pass, not accepting the statement, but not refuting it either. He can practically feel Luke lighting up behind him, thinking that he’s about to get his answer, about to hear what he wants to hear from Deckard.

It’s a shame that Deckard’s always been a disappointment.

“I’ll see you around, Hobbs,” he’s already lifting himself out the window. He hits the ground outside of it, moving along the side of the house to get to the front to find his bike, which he’s sure he parked somewhere nearby.

_ “...You too, beautiful.” _

But Deckard’s already too far to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically Deckard's emotionally constipated and scared as shit of commitment bc of his piece of shit dad and Luke's hurt and kinda heartbroken that Deckard's running away from the prospect of taking that step forward. Deckard hates hurting Luke, but it doesn't change the fact that he's scared, and Luke's hurt and he doesn't know why Deckard's running away--it looks like Deckard's almost been stringing him along. So yeah misunderstandings galore and a wee bit of angst thrown in. Hope you enjoyed! Let me know how you like this turn in the comments please. Ideally I'll get the next few chapters up sometime soon, but honestly I really don't know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting somewhere...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing I know--I haven't dropped off the face of the earth. 
> 
> Sorry y'all--I had a lot of work these past few months, but hopefully from here on out it'll be happy cruising. Hope you guys had a merry Christmas, hope you have a happy new year, and above all, I hope that you enjoy this chapter (I have a feeling you will)!

“I can take care of it. Of him.”

 _Fuck,_ why had he said that? 

Hobbs, even with how delirious he is, turns to look at him with raised eyebrows. Deckard can only see the expression out of his peripherals since he’s facing Nobody in the middle of the room, but it’s enough to set his teeth on edge. 

“Great! We’ll get you a transport to the apartment you’re staying at now.”

Too busy dividing his time between avoiding Hobbs’ eyes from across the room and bemoaning his own current lack of a brain, Deckard doesn’t even realize that _one,_ Nobody knows where his _personal apartment_ is, and _two,_ O’Connor is looking between the two of them with something like dawning realization on his face. 

And by the time he does finally turn to O’Connor to ask him for help heaving Hobbs to the car that’s going to take them to Deckard’s place, he’s completely missed the incredulous look that the blonde had thrown Hobbs’ way, accompanied by a finger pointing in Deckard’s direction and Hobbs’ frantic and violent shaking of the head. 

“Willing to help me, blondie?”

O'Connor snorts from where he’s leaned back nonchalantly against the wall, hands in the pockets of his dark cargo pants, similar in style to Deckard’s. And Deckard had been rightly confused when the blonde had shown up in them, dressed for stealth like Deckard and lacking the Toretto shadow that usually accompanied him, and he’d been even more confused when he found out that his partner for the surveillance op was the blonde himself. He’d been considerably less confused as he watched O’Connor scale a building with ease and take out the two guards on watch up top silently.

 _“FBI,”_ the other man had shrugged when Deckard had reached him. _“Did some bounty-hunting for a while before that, too, so that helped.”_

Just another reason to be unsettled by the man, it appeared. And, Deckard had been forced to admit from behind the other man as he slunk down the stairway leading into the building, another reason to admire him, as well. _No wonder Toretto was so smitten._

If he was in the same circumstance, he’d have stuck his tongue down the blonde’s throat a _long_ time ago. Or _proposed_ to him, for that matter. _What the hell was Toretto waiting for?_

Then he sees the cross dangling from the rearview mirror of what he assumes to be O’Connor’s ride as they’re hauling Hobbs out the door to the transport vehicle parked out front, and realizes _huh,_ _maybe Toretto hadn’t waited._

 _Smart man,_ he thinks to himself as the blonde makes sure to tuck Luke’s head to his chest as they’re getting him into the car so he doesn’t ram his head on the roof. _Better get on it before someone else does. O’Connor doesn’t seem like the type to wait around._

But then, as the driver’s peeling out of the parking lot, he catches a glimpse of O’Connor in his own car brushing his fingers reverently across that silver cross hanging from his rearview with a small smile on his face that speaks volumes despite its size and thinks, _maybe he would have waited._

Either way, his introspection on the blonde and Toretto hasn’t changed the fact that he’s trying to avoid interaction with Hobbs, who’s sitting next to him in the backseat of the limo they’ve been _graciously_ offered. He chances a glance at the other man and finds him with his teeth gritted tightly together, his hands curled into fists on his lap, and his head tilted back slightly to rest on the headrest. His eyes are open, and it’s clear that he’s in pain.

Before he can even acknowledge that he’s making the movement, Deckard’s next to him, prodding at his wounds, checking on the amount of blood that’s begun to soak the makeshift bandages they’d managed to scrounge together.

His lips thin at what he finds, and he prompts the already recklessly maneuvering driver to hurry up. There’s no real danger of Hobbs dying, but, if the blood loss keeps up, chances are Hobbs is gonna pass out, either from pain or from, obviously, the blood loss.

He drops a hand down to Hobbs’ wrist to feel out the other man’s pulse without looking as he drops his other hand down to prod the man’s knee, which is starting to swell in a manner that’s worrying Deckard.

“Not broken,” Hobbs grits out the moment his careful fingers make contact. And for the life of him, Deckard’s can’t figure out what the other man is thinking beyond the pain he can easily see on Luke’s face. _Seems like the big brute’s keeping things closer to his chest,_ he guesses petulantly, only for the feeling to be wiped away as a quick thought of _‘and whose fault is that?’_ pops up after it.

Nonetheless, he stops prodding at the other man’s knee, satisfied that Luke’s lucid enough to know how beaten around he’s been. And _fuck,_ hadn’t that been a shocker, to hear that the man had gone missing while on active duty, missing his both of his check-ins and the further attempts to contact him that had been made.

Deckard’s first action upon receiving the news (not nearly as quickly as he would have liked) had been to check up on Samantha—was she alright? Was she safe? Did she have a place to stay? He found her at her mother’s house, and, within a few hours’ watching, managed to determine that she was worried at her daddy’s lack of appearance, but none the worse for wear other than that. 

With that done with, he had reached out instantly to Nobody, who had been the one to tell him in the first place _(thank god_ someone _had thought to)_ asking for all information on Luke’s last known location. Nobody hadn’t even seemed surprised at the demand, as if he’d already known that Deckard was going to ask—and _nope,_ Deckard’s _not_ going to read into that, thank you very much—and had handed it out willingly, ending the call with a tense few words telling him to expect a partner. 

Hobbs’ eyes are a little too dilated for Deckard’s comfort, so he starts inspecting the other man’s elbows. 

“Not drugged,” Luke groans as the car goes over a rather prominent pothole. 

Deckard snarls at the driver to take it easy, then turns back to Hobbs with a grim look on his face.

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Not concussed.”

“Humor me.”

They’re the first words he’s spoken directly to Hobbs since he’d gotten the man out of the warehouse in one piece, and they’re not anywhere _near_ the ones Deckard really wants to use; Oh no, those words consist of angry _what the fuck_ -s and _what were you thinking_ -s and _you fucking idiot_ -s that he doesn’t think Hobbs can exactly handle right now. And, despite his own concern and frantic worry, they’re not the ones that he wants to use either, considering how harsh their last proper encounter had been.

Not that he’s been replaying that encounter over and over in his head or anything. Or lying awake at night, going over all the different paths the conversation could have taken, the ways it could have ended. Nope, not at all.

“Samantha Hobbs,” Hobbs groans, dropping his head back on the seat, closing his eyes.

Deckard scoots closer, cupping Luke’s face with a hand and turning it towards him so that he can get a look at the cut that’s dripping blood into the other man’s eyes. He brushes over it with gentle fingers, trying to get a feel of how deep it runs without irritating it further.

“How many brothers do you have?”

He drops his other hand down to Luke’s neck again, feeling out his pulse, counting the beat of it against his fingers. Luke keeps his eyes closed.

“Four.”

“What’s my name?

Deckard leans closer, trying to twist his body to get a better look at the cut on Hobbs’ head. It still hasn’t stopped bleeding, which is worrying him. He knows that head wounds bleed like a bitch, but the consistent trickle taunts him, makes him feel helpless in a way that he doesn’t like.

“Deckard Shaw.”

Deckard hesitates, wondering what else to ask the man. He should focus on details, he supposes.

“What’s my favorite color?” his voice is quieter. He tells himself that it’s so that Luke’s head doesn’t ache.

Luke’s lips twitch up humorlessly.

“Yellow.”

Deckard swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He keeps his eyes on the cut on Luke’s head, his fingers coming away red from it.

“What wrist…?”

“Left.”

Luke’s voice has gone quiet, too, as if they’re sharing some deep secret between the two of them. It makes Deckard want to let out a hysterical laugh.

“Why?”

“Because you wanted to protect your siblings from your father,” Luke says quietly. “Because you were willing to die for that fuck’s pleasure if it meant that your siblings would have more time to live… Because you were trapped and you felt helpless, and you would do anything to keep them safe.”

It’s unbelievable how good the man has become at seeing the good that Deckard’s done and avoiding the bad.

“How many people have I killed?” he intones emotionlessly.

Luke stills under his hands.

“...I don’t know.”

“Many.”

Luke opens his mouth like he’s going to say something then closes it when Deckard talks over him.

“What happened to my father?”

Luke’s face doesn’t change _—not that Deckard’s watching it—_ but his body shows his interest, present in the way that the other man’s fingers twitch, in the way that his foot taps a pattern along the seat, in the way that his shoulders suddenly stiffen with tension.

“I don’t know.”

 _“I killed him.”_

Luke’s body is tense under Deckard’s fingers.

“How many people have I hurt?” Deckard’s voice is quiet, and he’s given up any pretenses of looking at the cut on Luke’s head. He’s looking at the other man’s face, at his eyes that remain stubbornly closed.

“I don’t know.”

“How many times have I hurt you?” Deckard asks, so quiet it’s almost a whisper.

Luke stays silent.

The car comes to a stop, and Deckard backs up from Luke, undoing the other man’s seatbelt as he goes.

“We’re here.”

He steps out of the limo and shuts his door behind him before crossing over to the other side to help Hobbs out. Luke takes the hand that he holds out, using it to pull himself out of the car, swaying dangerously when he’s on his own two feet. The limo speeds off the moment Luke’s clear, burning rubber as it takes the turn on the end of the street, leaving Luke with nothing to lean on.

Deckard steps forward almost thoughtlessly, catching a hold of Luke’s arms and holding him steady.

“Hold onto me,” he murmurs, cringing internally as he says it because _why the fuck would Luke want to hold onto him?_ But the other man’s big hands fall to his hips without a second’s hesitation when the words leave Deckard’s lips, surprising him. 

By the time Deckard manages to get Luke in the building and up the lift and into his apartment, the other man is trembling ever so slightly, his legs unsteady and his breath heavy as he leans into Deckard. Gritting his teeth in worry, Deckard carefully leads the other man into his bedroom, ducking out from underneath the arm that Luke has around his shoulders and letting Luke fall to the bed. 

Groaning into the comforter and turning himself so that he’s on his back, Luke stares dazedly at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused and glassy. Deckard checks his elbows again, just to make sure it really is just the blood loss that’s fucking the other man over like this.

“I’m fine.”

Deckard rolls his eyes so hard he’s surprised they don’t roll right out of his skull and fall to the floor.

“Do me a favor and shut up, darling,” he cringes right after the words leave his lips.

_Wonderful job. Go and dump the man then immediately call him pet names and lead him on like some sort of tease right afterwards. Solid plan._

He feels Luke tense under his hands, but the other man remains blessedly silent, so Deckard lets out the breath he’d sucked in through his teeth. Praying to whatever deity that may be watching him to take pity, he leaves Luke on the bed while he heads into the bathroom to hunt down the extensive first-aid kit that he usually keeps there. On his way back to Hobbs, he grabs his cellphone from the shelf and tosses it to the other man. It lands squarely on the other man’s wide chest which is, thankfully, unharmed save for some bruises.

Hobbs raises his head tiredly to look down at it.

“...What?”

“Your daughter. She’s worried about you. Check in with her.”

And Luke listens to him, opening the phone and dialing the number with shaky fingers as Deckard cuts his shirt off of him carefully, baring tan skin bruised black and blue to his eyes. He hisses sympathetically through his teeth at the damage, running his cool fingers over the other man’s torso, feeling out his ribs, his collarbone, even dipping far enough to feel out the other man’s hipbones to check for fractures. He’d make a scene out of it, but… _well._

None of the ribs seem to be broken, and Hobbs doesn’t cringe when Deckard palpitates the skin near any vital organs, so Deckard’s willing to bet that they’re alright, not to mention the fact that he’s sure that any problems with them would have made themselves known long before now. 

He runs his hands down to the knee that had been worrying him earlier, and Luke _does_ cringe this time.

“Sorry,” Deckard murmurs absentmindedly, not taking his eyes off of the knee. He prods at it a few more times, trying not to make the pain from it flare up but failing from the way Luke has to talk through his teeth to the voice over the phone. 

“Luke can you—?”

Luke moves his leg before Deckard can even finish his sentence, cringing but moving the ankle attached to the swollen knee, rolling it a few times then wiggling his toes inside his boots for good measure.

_Good, so nothing broken, then._

“That’s good, relax it.” 

Luke’s foot drops like deadweight back to the floor, and _oh_ Deckard should probably help with that. Luke had fallen half on, and half off the bed, so his upper body is on it while his legs are dangling off of it. Deckard crouches down and unlaces the tight knots on the other man’s boots, pulling them off and setting them aside. He pulls off the other man’s socks while he’s at it, shoving them into the other man’s boots before straightening again. 

“Scoot up,” he says softly, mindful of the phone and the conversation that’s going on over it.

It’s not his business, so he’s pretty much muted whatever Hobbs and the person on the line—he’s assuming it’s Samantha out of common sense—are saying, but he’s still aware that the two are talking, and that Samantha is probably still worried sick, so he makes an effort to be quiet.

Luke clenches his teeth together to muffle his pain as he pulls himself properly onto the bed, and Deckard winces in sympathy, helping Luke prop his bad knee up once he settles. _He doesn’t envy the other man’s position in the least._

He heads out of the room for a quick moment, heading to his fridge to grab a bag of frozen peas to put on Luke’s knee. When he returns to the room, Luke is shimmying out of his pants, having predicted what Deckard was out to do. Probably for the best; Deckard didn’t want to deal with the awkward tension that would have come with him pulling Luke’s pants off. 

He still would have liked to pull Luke’s pants off, though.

Deckard shoves that thought to the back of his mind as fast as he can, feeling his face flush slightly and hoping that the dim lighting and Hobbs’ position on the bed will keep him from seeing it. Just in case, he ducks down, taking over to untangle Luke’s pants from his feet and pull them down. Hobbs leans back gratefully, picking up the phone from where Deckard assumes that he had put it down to undress and resuming his conversation. 

Deckard frees the cargo pants from Luke’s feet—very firmly does _not_ take a moment to ogle the definition of muscle on the other man’s legs—folds them, and sets them off to the side. He grabs the pillow that Luke hands him—having predicted Deckard’s course of action _again_ —and pushes it carefully underneath the other man’s knee to prop it up. Then, taking a firm hold of Luke’s ankle, he places the frozen bag of peas on the other man’s knee, anticipating and moving with the involuntary jerk of the limb as the cold of the bag makes contact with the heady warmth of Luke’s skin.

_Not that Deckard’s thinking about Luke’s warmth or anything._

Despite his rising exasperation with himself and his brain/body’s lack of control, Deckard’s fingers are nothing but gentle as he begins to clean, treat, and dress each wound on Luke’s body. It’s only after about an hour or so of Deckard meticulously cleaning and dressing each wound that he realizes that Luke’s staring at him. He keeps his eyes and hands where they are, but swallows, his throat suddenly dry. The silence hanging between them isn’t disturbed, but Luke’s eyes are heavy on him in a way that makes Deckard want to snap at him to stop.

Considering how ridiculous that would make him look, he refrains.

Gritting his teeth, but ultimately deciding that silence and staring is more preferable to the awkward conversation that could take its place, he continues to dress the last of Luke’s wounds undisturbed. It wasn’t anything too bad—no bullet wounds, just slashes; Deep slashes, to give Hobbs credit, but not deep enough to actually permanently injure anything. The only (largely farfetched) concern was that Luke could bleed out, which is probably what whoever had done this in the first place was aiming for.

Speaking of which,

“What happened?” Deckard asks.

“Set-up. They wanted information.”

“Have an idea as to who was in charge?”

Luke hesitates, and instantly Deckard’s on guard. 

“...None.”

_As if he’s going to believe that._

“How long were you there?” he asks, changing course instead of probing deeper. 

“Five days.”

“Were they in often to bother you?”

“Often enough.”

“What were they looking for?”

Hobbs’ eyes dart to the side before coming back to him.

“...Some stuff on the DSS. Nothing big.”

_He’s lying._

“Hmm,” he hums anyways, stewing silently. “D’you say anything?”

“Of course not!” Luke snaps at him. 

Deckard pauses what he’s doing to look up at Luke and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Luke has the decency to look sheepish.

“They looking for something specific?” Deckard continues anyways, dropping his eyes back to the task at hand.

“Some recent case. Must be a new file that dropped across someone’s desk.”

“And they jumped _you?”_

Luke tenses underneath him. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, clearly they’d planned this out—they knew to warrant a case that would get Nobody to send _you_ in, so clearly they’d done their research. You’re off active duty, right? Why would they try so hard to get you?” 

Luke pauses for a moment, and Deckard can feel his eyes heavy on his face, but he stays bent over the other man, focusing on calmly securing a gauze pad to a shallow slash on Luke’s abdomen. 

Another beat passes, then,

“You know I’m lying.”

_Well at least Hobbs doesn’t take him for a complete idiot._

Deckard hums noncommittally, not taking his eyes off of where he’s securing the gauze pad with medical tape, figuring that Hobbs doesn’t want the extra bulk of a full bandage for something so small.

“Why didn’t you press if you knew I wasn’t telling you the truth?”

Finally, Deckard looks up at the other man, moving at the same time to check the IV drip that he’s set up in his elbow. 

“Figured I’d give you the benefit of the doubt,” he says for the hell of it.

Luke snorts on the bed, but angles his head accordingly when Deckard moves again to check on his now-bandaged head wound. It had stopped bleeding about an hour or two ago, but Deckard would rather play it safe than be sorry later.

It’s only because he’s so invested in checking his work that Luke’s next words have the ability to catch him so off guard.

“They were looking for information on you… They mentioned the name Hunter Shaw.”

And no matter how much he may have tried, Deckard can’t stop the way his hands suddenly freeze, the way that fear steals across his expression. He works to maintain a calm demeanor, to ignore the phantom pain that’s suddenly risen up on his wrist, on his thighs, on his back. 

_Luke tensed in the car,_ Deckard realizes. _He tensed when I brought up Da and his death._

“That’s not possible,” he finally manages to get out. Luke’s watching him carefully.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I killed him,” Deckard’s voice has gone faint, and his head’s starting to spin. Stand up. He needs to stand up. He needs to—

Luke catches him by the elbow before he can pull away. He’s still got that worried crease between his eyebrows, and now more than ever Deckard wants to smooth it away. This isn’t Luke’s fight. He shouldn’t be worried.

“Are you sure that he was dead? Was there a body? Maybe—”

“He was on Hattie. He was trying… he was trying to take her. He was tearing at her clothes, trying to get her skirt off. I tackled him. He hit his head on the corner of the table as he was going down,” Deckard trails off, trying to think, trying to remember anything— _everything_ —that he can. He doesn’t have to try hard. It’s right there, in the back of his mind like it always is. 

Hattie screaming. Her terror. Da towering over her, one hand fisted in her skirt and the other in her hair, holding her down. His satisfaction. Deckard tackling him and sending them both to the floor. His fury. The blood spilling from the back of Da’s head as Deckard wrapped his hands around his throat, pinning him to the ground with his own weight. The blood, there was _so much_ blood. 

“I was on him. Wrapped my hands around his throat. Slammed his head to the ground. He didn’t fight back. I felt his neck snap. Felt him stop breathing. I saw him die. We buried him. _He’s dead. He has to be dead.”_

And even now, Deckard remembers the panic, remembers the fear, remembers the anger. But above everything, he remembers the _relief._

Relief because _Da was gone. Da was dead, and he wasn’t ever coming back._

Remembers turning to Owen and Hattie and seeing the same relief mirrored on their faces.

 _“Deckard!”_

Deckard snaps out of it, blinking owlishly at Luke in front of him, who’s risen into a sitting position.

 _His IV,_ he thinks absently. _It’s going to shift._

“No it’s not,” Luke says.

_It’s going to shift—_

“I pulled it out, it’s fine.”

_How did he—_

“You’re saying this shit out loud, Deck.”

_Oh_

Luke is sitting up, he realizes properly. Battered and bruised and beaten more than he deserves, Luke is sitting up. He’s got a hand on Deckard’s shoulder, and the other is on his face, cupping it gently like he always has, cradling it. And suddenly, Deckard is overwhelmed.

“I can’t—”

“You _can._ Take a minute. Breathe. You’re going into a panic attack, and I’d rather you didn’t. We’ll talk in a minute and talk it out. Now _breathe.”_

And it’s almost as if Luke’s just breathed air into his lungs himself because suddenly Deckard’s aware of the way he’s tensed up, the way his hands have clenched into fists and are pressed against his own thighs, the way his breath is stuttering out of his control, the way his thoughts are scrambled.

_Damn, he’d think the therapy would have helped with this._

Despite it all, his mind is his own once again. He begins to make a conscious effort to regulate his breathing, calm his racing heart, loosen his tense muscles. Luke’s eyes don’t leave his face for a second, and his big hands are steady on his body when nothing else is. Deckard brings himself down, calms himself, and through it all Luke is right there with him.

Even when he’s calmed down, breathing under control, heart no longer racing, body loosened, Luke keeps his hands where they are, though the look in his eyes is more uneasy now.

Deckard lifts his own hand to the wrist of the hand cupping his face, grasping it gently but not pulling it away. He keeps it in place as he leans into Luke’s hand, like a cat that’s being petted. The look eases away from Luke’s face as his features soften into something more affectionate. Unguarded.

“Sorry,” Deckard whispers into the silence that’s fallen between them.

“I think, after all that, you’re allowed to freak out a bit, princess.”

A brief silence, then,

“Did he… Was Hattie okay?” Luke’s voice is halting, careful, but unbearably concerned, his eyes wide and earnest and _angry._

“He didn’t rape her. She was alright. Spooked but untouched,” Deckard answers the unasked question. 

The other man breathes a heavy sigh of relief, and a small weight seems to have been lifted off his shoulders. 

“Thank god,” he breathes. “Thank god you were there. Thank god you saved her.”

“I killed him,” Deckard’s voice breaks, unbidden, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he knows that Luke won’t judge him for the weakness. “I strangled him. I broke his neck. I beat his head against the ground. _I killed him. He’s dead.”_

“I believe you.”

“We buried him in a lot. He barely even left the house and no one liked him, so when he died we just said he walked out on us and no one asked any questions. No one came looking. We forged divorce papers to back it up. _We buried his dead body. I checked for a pulse, I checked for breath, I checked for a heartbeat. He didn’t have any. He’s dead. I killed him—”_

 _“Shhhhh, Deckard,_ I believe you. Don’t get worked up over it, over _him.”_

And Deckard doesn’t think he’s ever heard Luke sound so solemn, so final, than when he says, “You did the right thing. Your father got what he deserved, what he had coming to him. You kept your sister and your brother safe, protected your family.”

“I killed him,” Deckard whispers, hand tightening on Luke’s wrist.

“And I _don’t care._ You did the _right thing._ It was self defense, princess. He was trying to rape your little sister and you got him to stop, made sure he wouldn’t ever threaten her like that again. Or your brother for that matter. You protected your family.”

 _Oh,_ Deckard is so fucked.

“What’s my favorite color?” he whispers into the air between them.

“Yellow,” Luke answers without missing a beat. If the other man is confused at the complete 180 that Deckard’s just pulled, he’s doing a damn good job of not showing it.

“What wrist?”

“Left.”

“Why?”

“Because you wanted to protect your siblings from your father,” Luke says quietly. “Because you were willing to die for that fuck’s pleasure if it meant that your siblings would have more time to live… Because you were trapped and you felt helpless, and you would do anything to keep them safe.”

“What happened to my father?”

“You killed him.”

“Why?”

“Because you were protecting your siblings, your family, the same way you always have. You were keeping them safe.”

“Why did I run away from you?”

Luke’s breath hitches. “I don’t know.”

“I was scared.”

Luke opens his mouth but Deckard beats him to it.

“Why was I scared?”

“I don’t know.” Luke’s response is quicker this time, as if he’s desperate for an answer.

“I trust you. I care about you. And I’ve only ever been punished for that in the past.”

 _There._ He fucking said it. It’s out there in the air between them now. Deckard can’t hide it away anymore. 

Luke’s answering smile could rival the sun. 

“I got you to say it again.”

Deckard’s drawing a blank. 

“Come again?”

“You just said you care about me. I got you to say it again.”

The statement’s so unexpected that he can’t stop his lips from splitting in a smile, teeth flashing in what he’s sure is an incredulous grin that he can’t bring himself to stop.

And the look on Luke’s face as he looks at Deckard is something close to _reverence._

“There’s that smile, beautiful,” Hobbs whispers.

_Fuck it_

Deckard lets go of Luke’s wrist, and uses the hand to cradle Luke’s face, fingertips brushing the edge of the gauze pad he’d applied earlier. And with that, he pulls the other man forward sharply, leaning forward at the same time until their lips collide in the middle.

It’s anything but refined at first. Luke clearly hadn’t seen it coming, seeing as how his body completely freezes at the contact, his hands hovering as if he doesn’t know where to put them. But it doesn’t take long for him to finally get with the program, and when he does, one hand coming to grip the base of Deckard’s skull and the other sliding to rest on his side, Deckard has to pull back and gasp for breath.

Because, _goddamn,_ Luke’s a conquerer, pushing forward and taking, angling Deckard’s face the way he likes with the hand on his head, holding him in place with the hand on his side. Deckard’s pulled in with each movement of those lips, with each swipe of the other man’s tongue, with each nip of his teeth.

Now, outside of his personal life, Deckard’s got a _glaring_ problem with authority—he hates it, _despises_ it. It’s the main reason he prefers to work alone. But here, with Luke plundering his mouth and forcing him to take what he lays down, Deckard’s as far away from hate as he can possibly get. 

It’s all he can do to keep himself from making some sort of embarrassing noise as Luke pulls back and tilts Deckard’s head up with the hand on his head, keeping him there with a firm grip as he sucks and nips at the pale skin of Deckard’s neck. Now, Deckard’s sensitive as fuck, and he knows that Luke has got his finger on it when the other man spends entirely too much time lavishing each area that he’s decided on before tipping Deckard’s head back down again to go at his lips again.

And, at this point, Deckard’s pretty much given up on his claim against embarrassing noises—he’s letting out all sorts of them now, but he’s at least assuaged by the fact that Luke’s being plenty noisy himself. So Deckard gives as good as he gets, nipping at Luke’s bottom lip and catching it between his teeth before letting it go and soothing the hurt with his tongue. He meets each flick of Luke’s tongue, each pull of his lips, with his own, using the angle that Luke is holding him at to his own advantage, letting each kiss drag deep and dirty before pulling back only to go in again.

It’s fucking brilliant, to say the least.

But the angle’s awkward as fuck; Deckard’s sitting with his legs dangling off the bed, his head turned to meet Luke, who’s sitting up on the bed behind him. Luke clearly sees it too, for suddenly those big hands are palming his hips and half-lifting, half-dragging him to perch on Luke’s lap, straddling him. The bag of peas slides unceremoniously off of Luke’s knee to the bedspread instead.

Deckard pulls back, lips plump and red, breath hard, “—Your knee—”

But Luke’s already migrated to his collar-bone again, hand moving to drag down the collar of the jumper that Deckard’s wearing to expose more of his pale skin to Luke’s searching mouth.

“I’ve finally got you in the right mood, if you think my _knee_ of all things is going to fuck this up for me I’m going to have to tell you to think again, princess,” Luke growls into his skin before pulling a laughing Deckard down to kiss him again.

Deckard’s only more than happy to oblige, of course, pushing into Luke now that he knows where the other man stands. He’s not too worried about hurting him—he’d set up some painkillers in the IV drip earlier, chances are they’re in Hobbs’ system—so he molds his body to Luke’s, shifting so that his knees are holding him up, resting on either side of Luke’s hips on the bed. 

The position lifts him up slightly, making it so that Luke has to tilt his head up to be able to kiss Deckard properly, but it also means that Luke’s hands can slide down Deckard’s body to cup his firm arse in his hands. Luke—predictably—takes advantage of the opportunity immediately, big hands coming down to grab a side each and knead. He pulls Deckard closer with the grip, pressing their hips together and guiding Deckard in slow rolls.

Deckard had been in the process of getting a very thorough tour of the inside of Luke’s mouth, but when Luke pulls them together he has to pull back and let out a low groan. Luke seems to have completely forgotten about any sort of injury he has, seeing as he’s groaning and cursing and controlling Deckard’s rolls against him.

And _oh_ he’s hard. Luke’s stripped down to his boxers, and even through the thick material of Deckard’s cargo pants, he can feel the rigidity of the other man’s dick. And it’s not like Deckard’s never felt the other man hard against him—they literally made a game out of grinding against each other, for crying out loud—but this is the first time that Deckard’s actually been able to let himself notice it, to _act on it._

So he drags one hand down Luke’s bare chest, over those tattoos that he’s got very clear plans of tracing with his tongue and teeth, over the other man’s defined abs and belly button, over the waistband of his boxers, until it’s resting firmly on Luke’s hard cock through the fabric. He’s never been one for slow, so the minute Luke meets his eyes he starts kneading, rubbing as well as he can with the angle and the cotton barrier between them. Luke doesn’t seem to mind, given how his eyes have fallen closed and he’s let go of Deckard’s arse in favor of propping himself up on his elbows, groaning loud and low in his throat in a way that’s going straight to Deckard’s own dick.

Deckard’s not really a huge fan of the idea of moving, so he can’t do anything about the angle, but the barrier of Luke’s boxers…that he can fix. And Luke knows it, too—looking at him through half-opened eyes, daring him to take it further—and Deckard’s never been one to step back from a challenge. He lifts his hand from Luke’s cock straining against the fabric and instead toys with the waistband of Luke’s boxers, dipping the tips of his fingers in before drawing back again, feeling out the other man’s response. 

One of Luke’s hands grasps Deckard’s cock through the material of his cargo pants in an answer. Deckard tips his head back and lets out a loud moan, letting his hips twitch up into Luke’s hand for a few moments. He can feel Luke’s eyes, hot and heavy, on him, drinking in the noises he’s making, the look on his face, each and every one of Deckard’s reactions, and it’s driving Deckard absolutely fucking wild.

He tilts his head back down to meet Luke’s smoldering gaze head-on through slitted eyes, dipping his fingers slowly into Luke’s boxers, tugging them down slightly as he goes, searching…searching— 

_“Can you quiet the fuck down—we’re trying to sleep here!”_

Both of them jump at the loud exclamation, and they jump once again at the angry banging on the wall, as if someone is beating their fist against it.

Deckard groans again, for a completely different reason this time, “This _fucking_ arsehole—acting as if he doesn’t do the same _goddamn_ thing every other day—”

And Luke’s laughing beneath him, deep rumbling laughs that Deckard can feel shaking his body. And if the mood wasn’t dead before this, it definitely is now. Luke’s laughing so hard that he has to drop himself back to the pillows, raising his arms to cover his face and muffle his laughter.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, big guy. You’re not the one that has to deal with it on a daily fucking basis,” Deckard mutters, retracting his hand with a sigh and swinging himself off of Luke.

“You don’t even actually live here,” Luke manages to get out from behind his arms.

“Yeah but the few times I do actually stay here it’s to hear this douche trying his best to make a fucking porno on the other side of the wall— _god_ I hate this flat.”

“All the more reason to come to my place,” Luke finally lifts his arms to reveal his face, red from laughter, and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively at Deckard.

“Yeah?” Deckard asks as he gets to his feet, smirking at the other man. “Pity we weren’t there this time around. We could have had happy endings all around.”

Luke’s eyes dart down to Deckard’s lips, which he knows are swollen, puffy, and shiny from the heated kisses they’d been sharing between them. Deckard barely has a moment to brace himself before Luke catches his wrist, pulling him down for another kiss. This one, a stark contrast to the last, is chaste, sweet in a way that makes Deckard’s toes curl against his hardwood floors.

This time when they part, Deckard stays close, keeping his eyes closed and pressing his forehead to Luke’s gently before pulling back. Even then he doesn’t go far—somewhat because of Luke’s hand on his wrist, but mostly because he can’t bring himself to move away.

It’s Luke who breaks the silence this time, brushing a gentle thumb across Deckard’s cheek,

“What you said earlier,” he says suddenly, voice quiet as if he’s afraid to disturb the air that’s fallen on them, “about you being scared… you don’t have to be, beautiful. _”_

Deckard’s quiet for a moment, the abrupt change in topic giving him whiplash, before responding just as quietly, “The way I grew up…” he pauses, searching for the words, “I can’t just forget that.”

Luke’s tense again, and the hand that’s on his wrist has tightened, as if the man is afraid that Deckard is about to bolt like he did at Luke’s house last time.

Deckard leans down and presses another chaste kiss to Luke’s lips, drawing it out until the man relaxes slightly, his hand loosening. “I’m not going to run, Luke… Just give me time. Take it slow.”

“Anything you want, princess,” Luke’s voice is sincere, his eyes earnest. “If you’re not okay with something tell me, and I’ll stop. If I’m overstepping something, tell me, and I won’t anymore. We go at your pace, sound good?”

“Didn’t realize that when you decided to call me princess you’d be treating me like one,” Deckard grins back.

“Doll, I’ll treat you like a fucking queen if you give me the chance.” And despite the joking tone and the cringe-worthy cheesiness, it makes something in Deckard settle.

“Sounds great,” he whispers back, dipping to press a quick kiss to Luke’s cheek before pushing himself off the bed and getting to his feet. Luke half-rises out of the bed, hand shooting out to grab his wrist.

“Where are you—”

“Cleaning up. _Relax,_ big guy. I’m not walking out on you.” He grins. “It wouldn’t really make sense for me to walk out anyways; This is my flat, numbnuts. What am I going to do, camp out on the street while you get my bed? Not a chance.”

Luke chuckles, but his smile is a little too strained, his eyes a little too wide.

The smile drops off Deckard’s face and he turns back to Hobbs, leaning down to press a kiss to the other man’s forehead.

“Listen to me, darling. I’m not walking out on you. It was a shitty thing to do in the first place, and I’m sorry that I did it. I ran instead of talking to you, which wasn’t right, and I hurt both of us in the process. I know that it was stupid—pointless, even. Know that I won’t do it again, not without talking it out first and letting you know.”

And Deckard knows that it’s the right thing to say when he sees Luke’s expression ease, the worry in his eyes fade. The other man goes far enough to look sheepish, letting go of Deckard’s caught wrist guiltily, like he’s embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, bringing the hand to rub at the back of his neck.

Deckard smiles again, dropping down to press another quick kiss to Luke’s lips, “Don’t be, love. It’s sweet.”

And with Luke’s almost bashful smile in the forefront of his mind, he straightens to tidy up a bit, putting the first-aid kit away and throwing away the scraps of supplies that he’d used. He debates putting some food together for Hobbs but, with a look at the man blinking sleepily at him in his bed, decides against it, figuring it can wait until morning at least. While he’s in the bathroom putting the first aid kit away, he changes into something more comfortable, swapping out his tight cargo pants for a pair of cotton joggers and shucking his top. 

When he steps back into the room, Hobbs is still blinking sleepily, though his blinks are considerably slower and longer than they were earlier. Deckard suppresses a smile at the sight and pads out of the room, checking the door and windows, the stove, and whatnot. Heading back into his room, he flicks the lights off and pads to the bed, prodding at Luke until he groans and shifts so Deckard can pull the comforter out from underneath him and drape it over the both of them.

He shuffles closer to Luke, who is turning carefully to face him. By the time Luke gets an arm around his waist, Deckard’s pressed close to the other man, chest to chest. Though the swelling has gone down considerably on the other man’s knee, Deckard not willing to test it by tangling their legs together, and Luke seems to be of the same mindset, though he grumbles about it at first.

Deckard noses at Luke’s chin until he lifts it enough for Deckard to press his face to where Luke’s neck meets his shoulders. Luke chuckles, but doesn’t say anything, moving his head accordingly and letting Deckard settle.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, soaking in the presence of the other and letting their eyes adjust to the darkness. Deckard’s almost drifted off when he hears Luke speak,  
“You free tomorrow morning, princess?”

“Should be, yeah,” Deckard responds sleepily, confused as to what Luke’s getting at.

“I promised Sam I’d make her pancakes tomorrow. I’m gonna pick her up and head home and make them. Do you want to drop by for breakfast?” 

Deckard pauses, more awake now, holding his breath.

“Your daughter will be home,” he probes, just to make sure Luke knows what he’s doing.

“I want you there,” Luke’s voice isn’t unsure or faltering. He’s thought about this, and he’s sure.

“... Then I’ll be there, love,” Deckard responds softly, turning his head to press a kiss to Luke’s bare shoulder before tucking back into the crook of Luke’s neck.

Deckard can’t see Luke’s heady grin, but he feels the imprint of it against his skin when Hobbs presses his lips to the crown of his head in a kiss.

Deckard hides his own grin in Luke’s neck.

_Pancakes and Samantha. He can do that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Good? Bad? Let me know in the comments! Hope you guys enjoyed, and let's all pray that I manage to crank out another chapter before break ends rip.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Ideally, this will be updated soon, but knowing me and my late self, it may take a few days or weeks, even. I will finish this, though -- I'm not one to leave things half-done. Until then, hope you enjoyed! Comments are welcome, hate is not. Stay safe, everyone!


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